


Giving Up

by Secre



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5815453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secre/pseuds/Secre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is at the end of his rope; he's no saviour, he's just a frightened and hurting adolescent who has been asked to do too much. Sirius, the prophecy; how much can one boy take? Is it too late for McGonagall to do something now? Or has she run out of time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Rude Awakening

**Trigger warning: Suicide attempt**

Loud persistent banging on my door at some godforsaken time in the morning is never a good sign. In fact, in these dark and troubled times it would usually be classed as an exceptionally bad sign. It is either a sign that something has gone really, really wrong or otherwise a sign that whichever students are engaging in that particular activity are going to be in one hell of a lot of trouble. If I'm honest, part of me is severely tempted to just roll over and ignore it but I can't for several reasons. Firstly, the last time this happened Arthur Weasley was an inch from death and only the quick actions of students and staff alike saved him. Secondly, my students would have to be fools beyond imagination or belief to disturb me at this sort of time without a startlingly good reason and thirdly because joining the bangings of fists against my door is a chorus of voices shouting 'Professor' and 'Please' in a cacophony of voice that could wake the dead. I recognise those voices.

With several mumbled curses I stagger out of bed, grabbing my tartan robe from the side as I do so and fitting my feet into equally tartan slippers. By the sounds of the ruckus outside my door, this is not an appropriate time to shuffle around looking for a decent set of clothing or careful tying of my bun. As I stagger to the door I feel the increasingly present tightening of my chest; my ever present reminder of the tenure of one of our more unpleasant colleagues and one of the many occasions I have been grateful in recent years for the curse on that particular post. Or so I tell myself at least as I wince. It can't be fear starting to tighten its grip on me, although with everything that's happening now that would not be an unreasonable reaction I suppose.

I swing the door open, ignoring the fact that my portrait has sulkily moved over to this side of the door in order to avoid the pounding on the other side. It's no great surprise to find Granger and Weasley outside; this was bound to have something to do with Potter, most unexpected things do. I have a great deal of affection for the boy but it is an unavoidable fact that chaos follows him like goblins follow galleons. It's more of a shock to find the entire gaggle of sixth year boys standing there in varying states of dishevelment and barely restrained hysteria. All of them except one. Before I can say a word Granger speaks and there is no mistaking the fear and panic that lie closely behind her words.

"Professor, it's Harry. You have to find him. Please. Please, Professor. You have to find him."

For a fraction of a section I feel an extreme irritation that I have been awakened due to a simple case of a student out of bed, even if it is Potter. But whatever words I was going to say to that effect die in my throat as I look around the rag tag group of students in front of me. Tears are falling down Granger's face without her seeming to even notice them, I could count the freckles that are standing out on Weasley's face and Longbottom is so pale he looks about to faint. Finnigan and Thomas don't look much better. They all look like terrified children, rather than the sixteen year olds they are. My chest tightens sharply.

"What…"

I'm interrupted again, this time by Weasley stumbling forward clutching a piece of parchment in his hands. Hands which are shaking alarmingly. He looks at me beseechingly as he holds it and I take it from him slowly. In that look I can see his fear, his helplessness, and his need for me to fix whatever is wrong.

By the time I am two lines in my heart is beating erratically and I start the staff alarm going with a shaky movement of my wand. By three lines in I've upped that alarm to one of the highest priority calls and added both my personal signature as well as the signature of Deputy Headmistress. That alarm will wake every member of staff up and is a call that we very rarely have to use. I have effectively used the 'all staff to my quarters, student in danger'. As I keep reading I add the extra harsh charms that should bring everybody running; 'Mortal danger. Student down. Medical assistance required.' If that doesn't move them; nothing will. That should merit a firecall to St. Mungo's for extra hands in case they are required from Poppy.

"Well!? Aren't you going to do something!?"

Finnigan's words break through my haze as I stare at the letter in my hands. A letter I never thought I would be reading. A letter that has shaken me to my core.

**_Dear Ron and Hermione_ **

**_I'm so so sorry for leaving this burden to you but I don't have anyone else. I don't know if I even still have you. But I'm sorry I couldn't tell you, I'm sorry that this is going to hurt you so much, I never wanted to hurt you._ **

"I just have," I respond shakily, not even registering the lack of respect in the teenagers tone or words. Now is not the time. "I cannot do anything on my own, we have an entire castle to search. I have sent a full scale alarm out to all staff. They should be here shortly." A thought crosses my mind briefly, hopefully. "Unless you know where he is?"

**_By the time you read this I will be dead._ **

A harsh, helpless laugh erupts from Weasley.

"He took the map and his cloak. He could be anywhere and we can't even see him!" His tone is harsh but it's due to the desperation and helplessness I can see in his face. Damn Albus to hell for giving the boy that cloak.

"Please, Professor. You have to find him," Granger sobs.

**_I'm sorry. I'm not a saviour, I'm not a hero, I'm not the golden boy and I can't be the boy-who-lived anymore. I'm not even a good friend. If I was I wouldn't be writing this, I wouldn't be thinking this, I wouldn't have lied to you. I am sorry. So so sorry._ **

The words I have read are resonating through my mind like a badly tuned tuning fork, shattering my heart with their implications. I have no idea where the boy has gone and I have no idea how we are going to find him. Part of me desperately hopes that this is just a bid for attention, but I don't think it is. He could have done that any time in the last two years when everything seemed to turn against him and we sat back and let the world bay for his blood. He could have tried a sympathy bid then. He didn't. I don't think he's joking. But I have no idea how to find him. There are hundreds of rooms in the castle, some which I don't even know of. There's the outside grounds. There's the lake, the forest, the Quidditch Pitch, the courtyard, the Astronomy Tower. How are we going to find an invisible child who could be dying as I stand here? But I can't tell these kids that. I'm the only hope they have left.

**_I'm sorry. I know I keep saying it, but that's because I need you to know it's true. I can't do this anymore and if I'd have told anyone you'd have tried to stop me. I can't allow that. This is the end. I can't hold on anymore. I can't be what everyone expects me to be. I can't be the one they hate or adore because of this jagged scar on my head. I can't be the pawn or the saviour. I can't cope anymore._ **

The staff start to arrive in a hurried rush in various states of undress and dishevelment; even Severus is moving more quickly than his usual slow, careful stride. It's not often that call is sent out and it isn't one that's taken lightly, even Binns should be down at some point and he pays attention to virtually nothing. The looks on the faces range from confusion to concern and I suddenly don't know what to say, I have no idea how to explain the crushing fear that has taken over my chest, that's making it so difficult to say.

Filius is the first to speak as he looks at me sharply and then at the group of panicked teenagers huddled in front of my door.

"Minerva, what's wrong? What's the emergency?"

**_Please try not to hate me for what I've done. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to cause you pain. I just want it all to stop; I need it all to end. Please don't blame yourselves; you could not have stopped this, you could have done nothing to prevent me from dying and if I didn't do it tonight it would be tomorrow, or the day after. I can't hold on anymore, I am not strong enough. Please don't judge me too harshly._ **

I can see the concern glinting in the smaller man's eyes as he looks at me. I shake my head wordlessly and just hand the letter over to the Charms Master. I don't know how to say how far we have failed this sixteen year old boy who has chosen death over life, I don't know how to say how slim a chance we have at finding him before it's too late. I watch Filius' face as it moves from confusion at just being handed a letter, to concern, to comprehension and when he looks back up I can see the fear that mirrors my own feelings exactly. He takes charge, slamming the letter into the hands of Severus as he casts _Sonurus_ on himself.

"We need to find Harry Potter. He's going to…" he stops hesitantly before closing his eyes and building his resolve. "He's disappeared and left a suicide note."

 ** _I've tried to be strong for so long. I've tried to be the saviour. I saved the stone, I saved Ginny, I saved Sirius. But I killed Cedric by my actions and I killed Sirius by my stupidity. I've been strong for too long and now I'm broken. I'm broken and I'm shattered and I can't be the saviour Dumbledore needs. I can't do it. I can't even save myself. Give me something good, something precious, something valuable, unique or special and I will break it._** **_Love me, care for me, protect me or comfort me and I will destroy you. I will break you. I may love you but I will still break you._**

"The idiot boy won't do anything," the snide drawl of Severus comes from the side of the hallway. "He's just an attention seeking brat looking for the attention."

"No, he's not Professor!" The voice of Granger rises through the deafening chaos around us. "He's not! He's not been right since…since…Sirius."

Her voice cracks on the last word and I realise suddenly she is completely right and who could blame him. The boy was run through a gauntlet of horrors for four years, watched another boy die, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named come back from the dead, was derided and hated for another year and then watched the death of a man he loved dearly. And he felt it was his fault. Why did none of us see him? Why did none of us approach him and ask? How didn't we see this coming? How did we miss so much

**_I know I'm not worth anything. I am nothing. The only thing I'm good at it causing chaos and destruction. You look at me but don't see me. Only Professor Snape sees what I really am. You look at me and see something worth saving. There isn't anything left, I don't know if there ever was. I've hung on because I didn't want to hurt you, I didn't want to cause you so much pain, so much guilt. I can't hold on anymore. I don't want to and I can't._ **

I find my voice suddenly as I glare death at Severus.

"Is that really a conversation to be having now, Severus?" I snap angrily. "If you're right, you're right. If you're wrong we have a boy who could be bleeding to death at this very moment. Are you willing to take that risk? Are you willing to have that death on your conscience?" He pales as he recognising what I'm saying. Despite appearances to the contrary on occasions the man does have a brain. "We need to find him!"

"But how are we going to do that?" Poppy asks in dismay, not noticing the way the teenagers seem to curl up on themselves. "He could be anywhere…""

Tell me something I don't know.

"We split up and search every wing of the castle top to bottom as well as the outside grounds," I say briskly ignoring the fear in my heart. "We will find him, we have to find him." I look at Filius. "Filius you take the ground, the _Point-Me_ charm will work much better outside in the open and you are the most proficient."

**_Please tell Professor McGonagall not to blame herself; it's not her fault, it's mine. I could have gone to her but didn't, I could have asked for help right from first year, but didn't. I hid everything from her; she can't blame herself. That wouldn't be fair. It's not your faults either, either of you. I promise you that. And apologise to Professor Dumbledore for me would you? I can't do what he needs, I can't be what he needs. I'm just not strong enough._ **

As members of staff start moving off in small groups to start the impossible task of searching an entire castle before one boy kills himself, the Weasley boy lets out a triumphant shout and I turn around to see what's excited him so much.

"The house elves," he gasps excitedly to my complete confusion, but Granger seems to understand what he's getting at. "DOBBY!" he shouts without any warning. "DOBBY! HARRY NEEDS YOU!"

Just when I'm trying to figure out whether the stress and worry has actually managed to send the youngster insane and what to do about it an astonishing figure appeared out of nowhere right in front of my feet. I say astonishing because I have never seen so many socks on a creature so small and frankly they all clashed with the hideous jumper he was wearing or the tea cozy on his head.

"Harry's Weezy calls Dobby?" the elf said squeakily looking in obvious bemusement at the rather random array of teachers and staff cluttering up the hallway. He looks around closely. "Where is Dobby's friend Harry Potter? The Weezy hasn't left his Harry has he?"

**_I'm sorry for all the promises I made that I couldn't keep. I'm sorry for all the lies that I have told and all the people who have been hurt by them. I'm sorry. That's all I can say. And yet, I know it can never be enough. I'm sorry for all the times I've dragged those of you I care about into my world of chaos, pain and hurt. I'm sorry for all the times when because of me, you ended up in the firing line, you ended up being hurt._ **

"Harry is in grave danger, Dobby," Ron says quickly. "He might be dying. He will die if we don't save him."

The little elf gasps in horror and starts jumping around distractedly in clear and obvious distress. I note that Weasley is actually subtle enough not to mention why Potter might be dying and wonder how close an attachment this elf has formed to my student. And again, how I was completely unaware of it.

"No! Master Potter must not die! Harry Potter can't leave his Weezey. Where is Harry Potter?"

"That's what we don't know, Dobby," Ron explains breathlessly and I wonder where he's going with this. What can one elf do? "Can the house elves help us look, Dobby? Will they do that? There's more of them than us and we need to search every room for Harry." He looks at the small creature searchingly then adds as an afterthought. "He might be invisible as well."

This didn't seem to faze the creature who started jumping up and down excitedly.

"Dobby will find Harry Potter. Dobby will get all the elves to help. Weezey wait here."

He cracks off immediately and I am starting to understand. Nobody, not even Albus, knows how many elves we have in the castle. If every one of them can search…the Weasley boy may well be a genius.

**_I'm sorry, I'm through._ **

Suddenly the hall is filled with thousands of small creatures cracking in and out of view as Dobby seems to be giving orders to them then pointing at me. If it hadn't have been so serious I would have found it funny, never in my life would I have thought to see an army of house elves. I certainly wouldn't have thought to enlist their help.

After minutes that seemed like hours there was another sharp crack and an elf almost landed on my feet.

"Cora has found the young Master," it squeaks at me. "Master is not in good shape, Cora is sorry for being so slow, Cora will iron her fingers."

"Never mind about that," I say impatiently. "Can you take us to him?" I indicate myself, Poppy and Severus both of whom have summoned their respective kits.

"Cora can take you. No other Master will get in without help. Young Master has refused entry. Cora can though."

I sigh in relief as I grab the completely shell shocked form of Poppy Pomfrey who has been staring in amazement at the complete chaos of small bodies around the corridor along with Severus who is now looking very pale indeed. Apparently he really believed his previous words and now they've come back to bite him. I have little sympathy or patience. We need to get to the boy.

**_I love you. Please don't hate me._ **

**_Harry James Potter_ **

As soon as I've grabbed them the small form cracks us all out of the hallway with a feeling disconcertingly like apparition but distinctly, nauseatingly different. And then suddenly we're in a room I don't recognise. It has a huge bath in the middle of it but I can't see Potter anywhere. I look at the elf questioningly.

"Cora thinks this room is called the Room of Requirement. Young Master is in the bath."

We all move towards the huge tub and my heart is in my mouth. I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe one of my students has done this. I can't believe the boy who I have come to love for himself rather than as Lily's son could be lying dead in that bath. I don't want to do this. I can hear my ragged breathing and the similar sounds coming from the two beside me. Severus has seem much death, but never on school property. Never one he has so much to blame himself for. Less than me perhaps though. Less than me.

I see the blood before I see the boy.

Please don't be dead. Please let us save you. Please don't be dead.

I drop to my knees retching as Poppy and Severus rush forwards as once. He's one of mine. One of mine did this to himself and I didn't stop him. I didn't notice. I did nothing.

Please Harry, please don't be dead.


	2. It Is What You Need It To Be

**Trigger Warning: Suicide attempt/Brief Reference to Self-Harm  
**

There's so much blood, just so much blood. I wouldn't have thought one body could have held so much, much less that you could lose so much. He can't be alive, not when so much of his life is spilt. It's not possible. We're too late. Poppy and Severus grab the boy from the tub as if he weighs nothing and set him on the floor, frantically working to try to save him but I am just on my hands and knees retching. We've lost him. How could I have failed this child so badly? How could I have let things go so, so very wrong? I thought he was strong, that he'd coped so well with everything, never seeing the scared and breaking child who was my ward. The words from his letter flash before my eyes and I can't help the sobs that erupt from my chest. How could I have let this happen? He can't die. He can't.

**_By the time you read this I will be dead._ **

From my near prone position on the floor I can see how pale the child is, he's as white as pure snow and there's an odd look of peace on his face which seems completely at odds with the carnage of the room around him. Poppy doesn't need any diagnostics to know what the problem is; the problem would appear to be the two gaping wounds all the way down the inside of his inner arms. They're too precise to be the work of any knife or razor; it's got to be a carefully aimed and forceful cutting charm. Not something to toy with idly. This was certainly no attention seeking bid. The boy wasn't taking chances; a late night escape, a hidden room somehow charmed so nobody could get in except the house elves and one of the most effective cutting methods I can think of. We are going to lose him.

"You are not dying on me now, you insufferable brat," the words are right but the tone is wrong; it's too harsh and there's a rare fear there which is most unlike the man. Severus isn't insulting the boy as much as he is desperately trying to will away the fear that is taking over him as much as it has taken over me. His face is as white as I have ever seen it and his fear that he won't be able to save the boy this time is clear in his shaking hands and the thickness of his voice. "I've saved your selfish hide too many times to let you go like this. Breathe, goddammit. Just breathe."

**_Please tell Professor McGonagall not to blame herself; it's not her fault, it's mine. I could have gone to her but didn't, I could have asked for help right from first year, but didn't. I hid everything from her; she can't blame herself._ **

What should he have told me in first year? What else did I miss that has led to the child in front of me throwing away his life in such a tragic and futile manner? What was he hiding from me then that I was too wrapped up in school business to notice? I know that if we lose him, I can't teach anymore. I won't be able to look at the faces around me and not see this broken, bleeding child that I failed so badly. I won't be able to go around pretending to be strong when my failure led to the completely futile death of a young man with so much potential and life in him. The death of Harry Potter, a boy who has already come through so much only to give up now.

I feel a light touch on my arm and turn to see the house elf looking straight at me.

"Mistress must open the door. That is the only way for the young Master to live. Mistress wants young Master to live, yes?"

"Yes," I choke out. "Yes, I want Harry to live!"

The medi-witch and the Potions Master are still frantically trying to resuscitate the child lying in a pool of his own blood, blood which he spilled himself in despair and hopelessness. Poppy is getting blood replenishment potions and who knows what else down him at a rapid rate whilst Severus is pounding on the boy's chest in some muggle display that I don't understand. But it's clear that they are fighting a losing battle; without the quickness of the house elves we wouldn't even stand this much of a chance but they can't keep this effort up much longer and the boy is still completely unresponsive.

"Yes! I can't let Harry die!" My voice is desperate as I watch the battle for life playing in out in front of my very eyes. The battle for a such a brave, courageous, generous and sacrificing boy, the battle for a boy I love. "What do I have to do? Tell me, please!"

The house elf looks at me seriously before responding.

"Mistress can do it. Cora will bring the other Masters to the door but Mistress must open the door."

"How do I do that!?" I respond frantically, real honest fear overtaking me. I have a chance to help him and I don't know what to do. "You said Harry had sealed it from us."

"Young Master did. But this is the Room of Requirement. It is what you needs it to be." The elf is looking at me as if I were a small child who is being instructed in something basic that I should already know. "You musts speak to the Hogwarts, Mistress must open her magic and speak. This place it will help you, it has strong magic. It is responding to the young Masters will but it doesn't want the child to die. It cries out for him. You must speaks to it. Dobby will hurt if anything happens to his Harry. This is how you save him."

That is the longest speech I have ever heard a house elf give and it is clear that she meant every word of it. She has the way to save my child and has just given it to me except I have no idea what she wants me to do. I have to try though. I have to try. If this is the way to save Harry then I will have to do it. I will have to find a way or die trying.

"Cora will gets the other Masters. Mistress must open her magic. It is the only way." She looks down at her feet for a fraction of a second before putting her hand on a fair approximation of where the heart is before continuing. "It is here. Mistress must look here." With that last remark she cracks out of the room again.

**_I'm sorry, I'm through._ **

No, Harry. You are not through. You are not through at all. I promise you that. I focus all my energy and concentrate fiercely as I feel it wash through me. But I can't feel anything but my own magic, my own energy. Nothing at all. I can't help wondering whether the elf is just crazy, I mean Albus has mentioned before that the castle has a life of its own but the way she portrayed it the castle might as well have been sentient. Sentient. And then I have it.

If I'm reaching out to another sentient magical being with energy I don't stay within myself, that would be pointless. I have to reach out, propel my energy towards the object of my attention. So hastily raising a shield around the three figures in a frantic battle between life and death, I do exactly that. I push out, more than a probe, more than a tentative expression of interest or attempt to gain attention. I propel my energy out around me, searching, seeking, probing. I can see the look of complete shock on Poppy's face as she watches the magical energy suddenly flying around the room, but I pay her no heed. Severus is too focused on what he's doing, which I finally realised were an attempt to get the boys heart beating to even notice the change in atmosphere.

And then I find it and I nearly lose hold on my magic completely. It's like nothing I have ever felt in my life before and the elf was right, it is reaching out to Harry. More than just calling, more than crying it is pulsing through the boy and I am almost certain that in its own way it is doing its best to keep the boy alive, but it can't do it alone. The help that it has given is probably the only reason we still have any chance at all though. With a surge of determination I propel my desperation, fear, helplessness and love for the boy lying in front of us at it in waves that pound through it like a tidal wave. The presence doesn't change in any recognisable way but somehow I get the impression that it recognises me, it recognises what I am trying to say. Praying to any God I can think of I keep the relentless waves of emotion; guilt, pain, heartbreak and my desperation to save the child flowing but I know that I'm missing something. _It is what you needs it to be_. That's what the elf had said. Potter needed a safe haven where no-one could find him, no-one could save him, no-one could reach him. He needed a place to die in peace. I need the complete opposite.

So I add in the image of the open door, of medics being able to reach us and the boy being helped. I add in all of the memories I have of that cold and white boy on the floor, not as he is now but as he always has been. His hair flapping all over the place as he laughed and joked with his friends, the way he whipped through the air on that Firebolt whooping for joy in sheer childish abandon. Tears are streaming down my face as I hurl memory after memory at this presence, what Harry is and what I want to bring back. The triumphant child who stormed into my office with a bloody sword in one hand whilst tightly clutching another child we all thought we'd lost forever in another, the young man battling through challenge after challenge and never faltering. The way he'd hug Sirius without shame, his shy smile when he got something right and the way mischief would glitter in those sparkling emerald eyes just like his mothers. I remember his courage, his intelligence, his selflessness and his sacrifices. All the memories I can find. The boy we love, the boy we need to save. That is what I need. That is what I require.

But somehow the images change without warning and I'm not the one in charge of what memories I'm seeing anymore. I just about keep a grip on the waves of emotion I'm casting but not without significant difficulty. Suddenly I'm seeing I small child huddled and crying in the darkness of what looks like a closet, bruises on his face and terror in those emerald eyes. I'm seeing that same young adult I pictured being pushed and hurt by someone four times his size, unable to do anything about it. I'm seeing the teenager watching Sirius fall through that veil and the complete grief and despair that comes with it, the guilt and the pain that overwhelmed him. I watch as he cuts lies into his own hand whilst I turn him away. I see tears rolling down a teenagers face as he sits alone in a bathroom contemplating a blade in silence. I see how he closes his eyes as he picks up and puts it against the pale skin and almost lovingly pulls it across. I can see the loneliness, the fear, the pain and the isolation. This is the boy that I never saw, this is the child I didn't help, the teenager I failed. I'm gasping for air but I repel the memories backwards. I understand. It kills me but I understand. I understand why he felt he had nothing to live for, why he couldn't cope anymore, why life didn't seem worth it. Death was easier. Death was peace. But I can't let that stop me.

**_I'm broken and I'm shattered and I can't be the saviour Dumbledore needs. I can't do it. I can't even save myself._ **

I regain my balance and open my soul; my love and my fear, my protectiveness and my desire to change things and spread it wide not knowing if it is enough, if it will work, not knowing if I stand a chance. But I have to try. I can't let him die. And then without warning the door slams open and my magic drops as if it never existed leaving me disorientated and breathless but I catch a last parting hint of something I can't quite name. Almost expectant. The rush through the door is astounding; Cora really did get everyone she thought might be helpful. St. Mungo's workers stream through the door, Albus is not far behind looking so much older and wearier than I have ever seen him which is quite impressive at his age. I don't know how long they've been standing outside that door but being on the other side not knowing whether you were already too late and having to just wait must have been one of the hardest experiences of Albus' long life. Despite everything I know he loves the boy dearly and this will have hit him hard. He starts towards me but is interrupted by a high pitched shout behind him.

"Mistress did it! Mistress did it!" a small form shoots past the group assembled to keep gawkers away from the scene without effort and I'm almost knocked over as it barrels into my knees, clutching on tightly. "Mistress saved Dobby's Harry! Mistress did it!"

I look down in complete bewilderment as the elf with the tea cosy on its head attaches itself to my knees with an oddly strong grip for something so small. Tears are streaming down its face gracelessly and I can feel the entirety of the small form shuddering violently against my knees. I look over at Albus for suggestion but his attention has been caught by the frighteningly small and pale form of Harry being magicked onto a stretcher as the medics bustle around him authoritively. Severus has to be forcibly propelled away from the boy, so unwilling is he to stop his routine of chest compressions for even a fraction of a second. He stands looking completely lost for a moment before collapsing next to the bath with his head in his hands and I can see his violent tremors from here. We almost lost him. We might still lose him. That seems to be the thoughts resounding through everyone's mind.

I watch stunned as they move the boy out the room . Harry. One of mine. So white, so small, so…peaceful looking. It's frightening when I realise I haven't seen him look so relaxed and at peace for such a long time, possibly even years. I've seen him studious, angry, worried, terrified, heart-broken and grieving but I haven't seen him look so relaxed in such a long time I barely recognise the expression on his face. That alone says more about me than I like to contemplate.

"You saved Dobby's friend, Harry Potter. Dobby's friend!" The small creature still attached to my legs has progressed into full on hysterical sobbing and is shaking so hard I fear it might fall over. Clearly the other elf had told him exactly what state Harry was in when she found him. I do the only thing I can think of. I kneel down and put my arms around the small creature, very much aware of how much I'm shaking as well. It freezes up for a moment before collapsing in hysterics. "The Professor touched Dobby. The Professor hugs Dobby. Dobby does not deserve…Dobby is…"

Kneeling down fully by the quivering creature attached to my I tighten my grip on the hysterical elf. Then I do something I would never have imagined myself doing, even in my wildest dreams. I put a single finger under his chin, gently forcing it up to look at me and I meet those large, wet, green eyes.

"No Dobby," I say softly. "You saved Mister Potter today, not me." His eyes glaze up again and I tighten my hold on the trembling creature further. "Had it not been you and all the rest of the elves we would have stood no chance of finding Mister Potter until it was far too late. As it is we're not certain that we were successful, but without your help it would have been a completely futile effort. We would have lost Harry forever and it is only due to your quick reactions and assistance that we didn't. I can honestly say that we cannot thank you enough."

That appears to be the final straw for the poor thing and he breaks free of my grip violently to fling himself sobbing onto the floor. I sink gratefully to the ground as well suddenly aware of how fast my heart is beating and how erratically; Potter has given me many occasions for near heart attacks over the years but I do believe he's exceeded himself this time. Even vanishing to have a stand-off with a basilisk can't compete with how I feel at this moment. In fact I'd take two basilisks, an escaped mass-murderer and a dragon at the same time over how I feel now. Tears roll down my cheeks and I find myself sobbing as I clutch my chest; Minerva McGonagall crying in company? Now that's about as unusual as Severus laughing.

**_I love you. Please don't hate me._ **

How could I ever hate him? My wonderful, fool-hardy, brash and brilliant Gryffindor who has put more years on my life than any of the other students combined. The boy who killed a basilisk, who saved a man everyone thought was evil, who rushed into battle regardless of the danger because he truly believed someone he loved was in danger. How could I hate him? So many times over the years I could have shaken him until I heard his brains rattle but I could never hate him. Not the boy who still remembered to bring Cedric's body back despite being in a battle for his life, not the child who knocked out a twelve foot mountain troll simply because another student was in danger. Another student he didn't even like at the time. How could I hate a child with such a wonderful, sweet soul? How could I have lost him?

"How are you holding up, Minerva?"

I look up to find the kindly gaze of Filius looking down on me in obvious concern but I can't find any words to answer him so simply shake my head mutely.

"Potter's in the best of hands now," he says reassuringly sitting on the ground beside me and resting a hand gently on my shoulder. "There's nothing more you can do."

"We nearly lost him," I choke out with difficulty. "We might still lose him." I can barely breathe as the realisation once again comes crashing down on me. "Filius, we might still lose him."

Fear tightens in my chest like a binding spell and I find I can barely breathe past it. We've had attempted suicides or averted suicides before of course but not like this; not so premeditated and so abrupt. Not so near successful. Because without a shadow of a doubt if the kids hadn't found that note so early, if Weasley hadn't thought up that house elf idea or if we'd been just half an hour later we'd have found a dead body with no chance at all of reviving him. He meant to be successful. He really meant to kill himself. That thought in itself is seriously shocking; that a sixteen year old boy in my care was that desperate, that alone and that desperate that he made the conscious decision to end his life. He didn't come to me for help; he didn't trust me to do anything. He took it into his own hands. And it must have been a real need for this room to provide for him; the Room of Requirement. It becomes what you need. And he needed an escape. He wanted out. For a sixteen year old to choose that? How did I not see the signs?

I realise Filius has left me and look around vaguely for him then see he's speaking with one of the medics. He comes back with a vial which he pushes into my unresisting hands.

"Drink this Minerva, it'll help." He watches me as I down the potion without hesitation or even a single thought process. Almost immediately I feel my chest start to loosen and my breathing even out. Calming Draught and a pretty potent one by the feel of it. I sag against Filius' shoulder as I feel my mind go blissfully clear and I vaguely note another healer pouring a similar concoction down Severus' throat. He looks up briefly and I can see the deep sense of shame and loss in those dark eyes without looking too closely. If we lose Potter today I will not be the only one it destroys. Despite his words, Severus has sacrificed much for that boy.

"Right," Filius says forcefully when he sees the potion take full effect. "Up you get. I'll get you down to the Hospital Wing; you're in no fit state to go back to your quarters now."

I don't even bother complaining. At least in the Hospital Wing I'll be able to grab some Dreamless Sleep. If there's one thing I don't want to do tonight it's dream. I don't think the white face and blood everywhere will leave my mind for a long, long time to come.

"We may have to banish some children back to their dormitories though," Filius says almost conversationally as I stand unsteadily and start to move towards the doorway. "Apparently when Mister Weasley told that Dobby elf we needed to search every room in the castle, he took it literally." He chuckles lightly but there's a sad look in his eyes that gives the lie to the mirth. "From what I can gather elves were chucking students out of beds to ensure Mister Potter wasn't hiding under them."

Albus stops us just by the doorway.

"Minerva, what…" he starts to ask.

Filius interrupts firmly before he can get any further.

"Not now, Albus," he looks directly up at the old wizard who looks so weary as to be decrepit. "A shock has been had by all. Severus, Minerva and Poppy will be taken to the Hospital Wing. Any questions can wait till tomorrow."

"But…"

"No buts, Albus," his tone brooks no arguments, not even from Albus. "Now is not the time. Excuse us."

Filius is correct, he has to send several students out of bed to find out what the emergency was packing back to their dormitories with stern words, but he takes no points. I don't think any of us have the heart for that now. He gently steers me towards one of the Hospital Wing beds and looks at me with such compassion I almost find myself crying again.

"You did everything you could, Minerva," he says gently. "And if you hadn't got that door open somehow, there is no doubt what the outcome would have been in anyone's mind." He smiles sadly. "You are going to have to tell me how you did that you know. But just remember; you, Severus and Poppy are the only reason that boy still has a chance at life."

So why does it feel like there's a hole in my chest that won't go away?


	3. That Which Love Destroys

**Trigger Warnings: Suicide attempt and brief reference to self harm.**

For the briefest of blissful moments upon waking I don't recollect anything and find myself wondering vaguely how I have ended up in a Hospital Wing bed. Only for a single blissful moment though. Then it all comes crashing back down on me in a wave of crushing intensity that I can only identify with Potter; Potter and the troll, Potter and the basilisk, Potter and a mass-murderer, Potter and all of the other completely reckless, self-sacrificing occasions that have nearly given me a heart attack over the years. Harry. Harry Potter. The note. The blood. Severus and Poppy's frantic efforts to revive that frail, white boy lying there so peacefully surrounded by such carnage. Harry. Lily's son making that awful desperate choice that he would prefer to die rather than live. Harry; my brave, generous and strong young lion. Harry; my griffin who has sacrificed so much for so many, who has been through so much and suffered so badly lying there with all that blood surrounding him. Harry; the boy I have failed so badly.

**_Please tell Professor McGonagall not to blame herself; it's not her fault, it's mine._ **

My sweet, caring, completely reckless young charge who has defied our expectations time and time again. The boy who saved a girl we had all given up as dead, the child who has defied logic and battled against all the odds from the very moment he stepped within the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. The teenager who dealt with the maelstrom of hatred the entire wizarding world was hurling at him when I should have stepped in and helped. Harry; the boy who had to face it all alone. How can I not blame myself? How can I do anything but blame myself? He is one of mine. And he couldn't trust me enough to talk to me. Yet who can blame him. I have to know if he survived. I have to know if our efforts were in vain.

Just as I'm scrambling out of the bed, cursing my old bones solidly once again as I do so, I hear a familiar snarl from across the room.

"Would you just update me on the brat's progress for heaven's sake!? And if you can't then find me someone who can!"

Severus has many talents, but tact and subtlety are not amongst them. He does actually know how to ask nicely, it's just something he does so rarely that he has no practice in the art.

**_By the time you read this I will be dead._ **

"I would also like to know how young Mister Potter is faring," I interject more calmly, striding towards the voices. As I approach I can't help but take in the relieved looks that the two young Healers shoot me. "It's good to see you again Maria, Theodore," I nod at each one in turn noting their evident shock that I remember them. "Although, I will admit the circumstances in which we meet again could be far more pleasant. Could you please update me on the status of Mister Potter?"

"We only know what we've been told, Professor McGonagall..." Theodore starts hesitantly.

That is one of the perks and huge downsides of this profession; once a teacher, always a teacher. Half of the witches and wizards currently residing in the county will only ever see me as the stern Professor catching them out in youthful misdemeanours. It doesn't matter how old they are or how proficient they are in whatever discipline they choose; I will always be their Professor.

"Minerva, please," I interrupt smoothly with a gentle smile at the obviously nervous Healer. "It's been many years since I was last your Professor, Healer Singer. Whatever information you have regarding the condition of Mister Potter would be very much appreciated, however scant it may seem to you."

"Of course, Prof- Minerva," the young man continues somewhat less nervously. I've always found addressing previous students by their titles allows them to feel more secure in what they are doing. "We don't have a great deal of information, I'm afraid. The last update we had was that the healers at St. Mungo's had managed to stabilise Mister Potter, but are keeping him under close observation. He lost an extraordinary amount of blood and it is frankly a miracle that he is still alive, but he should survive. Professor Dumbledore has been at St. Mungo's ever since Mister Potter was admitted and has been conversing with the team of Healers assigned to Mister Potter's case."

He's alive then. I feel the tension leave my shoulders and chest in a sudden wave as if there had been an invisible pressure that I wasn't even aware of until it released. He's alive. Harry is alive. I feel myself go faint and must have swayed alarmingly as two pairs of hands were suddenly manoeuvring me gently but firmly and I felt myself being set on a bed as if it was a world away. He's alive. Harry's alive. My boy is alive. The world spins dizzyingly around me for a moment as I'm pushed firmly onto the bed. He's alive.

**_This is the end. I can't hold on anymore._ **

"Lie down there for a second, Professor," I hear the voice of Maria as if it is coming from miles away and her hands hold her down to the bed steadily.

"Raised heart rate, low blood pressure, extremely low magical reserves. Possibly an extreme shock reaction with magical exhaustion." Theodore's soft, professional tones seem to be coming from an equal distance away.

"Can you hear me, Professor?" I nod blankly, nod really understanding but knowing some kind of reaction was required. A vial is placed against my lips as my head is tilted slightly and I swallow without even thinking. He's alive. Harry is alive.

"Heart rate is coming down. Blood pressure is stabilising." In some vague part of my brain I sense the relief in that statement, but I can't focus on it for some reason. Another vial is placed to my lips and this time I try to look at it before swallowing. "We're only trying to help you, Professor. You need to drink this." I recognise the sickly taste of Dreamless Sleep mixed with something I'd not so sure of but I can't bring myself to care. He's alive. Harry's alive.

**_Please tell Professor McGonagall not to blame herself; it's not her fault, it's mine._ **

I wake up with those same words reverberating through my brain. My boy. My stupid, caring and completely reckless boy. How did I let it get to this? I suddenly realise I'm being watched and I struggle upright, fighting the grogginess that tries to claim me to find Albus perched on the bed next to me. He looks older and wearier than I have seen him look in a long, long time. Actually no, he looked the same after the events two years ago when I think he finally realised that Harry had nearly died; after all the shock and excitement died down he suddenly realised he had nearly lost him. He had the same look then. I doubt very much that anyone has fed him Dreamless Sleep this evening, but despite that he still notes my stirring with a gentle, caring smile.

"Minerva, my dear," he says carefully with that gentle smile still in place. "I do believe you gave Healer Singer and Thorington quite a scare there, you know."

"What happened?" I ask roughly, still not quite able to make my eyes focus correctly or my brain function for that matter. "How's Harry?"

"Harry is going to be fine, Minerva. You don't think I'd be here now if he wasn't, do you?" Albus answers gently, but I've known the man too many years not to see the pain glistening in his eyes. Pain and fear. He is afraid. No matter what he says, he is afraid. "The swift reactions of Severus and Poppy, coupled with your efforts to get that door open saved him. It was..." and here he hesitates for just a fraction of a second, "...touch and go for a couple of hours, but the boy should make a full recovery in time."

"And the house-elves," I say loudly, despite how random it seems. I have remembered the complete army of elves cracking in and out of that corridor, how without Weasley's intervention and the elf Dobby we would have stood no chance of finding the boy until it was far too late. I ignore the looks of concerned confusion from the two Healers, instead focussing on Albus. "The house-elves. Dobby saved Harry more than any of us and Cora gave me the way to get the door open. Without the house-elves we would have been helpless. They saved Harry as much as we did."

"Yes, of course Minerva," Albus smiles at me and again I catch that hint of concern in his gaze. "If you wish to thank that particular house-elf, I would suggest several sets of socks; thoroughly jumbled up together of course. A mis-matched tea-cosy would also go down remarkably well."

He rests his good hand on mine as he looks at me and I realise with a start that it's not just concern for Harry shining in those bright blue eyes. It's concern for me as well.

"But you must rest, Minerva. Whatever you did in that room was certainly impressive; if the house-elves hadn't already woken every single student up, that certainly would have. You could feel it all the way through Hogwarts. But you are not as young as you used to be..."

"Says the man well over a century old who recently went ten rounds with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" I retort indignantly. Albus Dumbledore is a fine one to call anyone old.

"You are of course completely correct," Albus responds solemnly. "I, however, did not take five stunners simultaneously to the chest last year." He looks down at me over those half-moon spectacles of his and I can't ignore the concern in his eyes. "Additionally, from the way Hogwarts responded and what we felt throughout the grounds, I would hazard the guess that you somehow used more magical energy in those few minutes than I used in the entirety of last year." He stops me as I try to interrupt. "That includes my battle with Voldemort, Minerva. Hogwarts does not lie. Old men can of course be wrong, but I do not believe myself to be so this time."

**_And apologise to Professor Dumbledore for me would you? I can't do what he needs, I can't be what he needs. I'm just not strong enough._ **

"What did you ask him, Albus?" The line has suddenly come into my mind and I have to ask it, regardless of how inappropriate it seems. But the older man just looks at me with confusion blossoming in those clear blue eyes, so I expand. "Harry. What did you tell him? What did you ask him to do?"

"It's not important, Minerva," Albus says softly, his eyes never leaving mine. "I made a mistake, but it isn't important."

I was about to interject with a sharp remark along the line that it clearly mattered to Harry, it was important enough that he made a point of apologising to you. That doesn't suggest it wasn't important. I wasn't given the chance. I had forgotten that Severus was still in the room. He reminded us both by striding forwards suddenly with a rare fire in his eyes. It's the fire that I have only ever seen when one of his has been hurt, and it usually ends in pain for those concerned.

"Not important?" he snarls viciously, striding towards us ominously. "Tell that to Potter, would you? ' ** _I'm not a saviour, I'm not a hero, I'm not the golden boy and I can't be the boy-who-lived anymore.'_** _"_ Severus has the parchment that Weasley handed me in his left hand, but his wand is held almost threateningly in his right. It's not quite pointed at Albus, but not far off and his eyes are glaring death. Every single internal alarm I have is ringing but I can't do anything but watch. "What did he say? _' **And apologise to Professor Dumbledore for me would you? I can't do what he needs, I can't be what he needs. I'm just not strong enough.** '"_

Severus looks me straight in the eye for a second before focussing back on Albus, and although I don't know what he is trying to say, I can recognise the pain in his voice and the anger in his eyes well enough. He has read more into Potter's note than I did, so this is in his court.

"That doesn't sound like something that doesn't matter, Albus," he snarls in an almost feral manner. "That sounds like something that tipped The-Boy-Who-Lived over the edge completely. That sounds like it was the final straw." He steps forward threateningly. "What did you say?"

I am completely astounded by the sheer power and ferocity in my younger colleagues tone as much as the way I am at the way he is glaring at Albus with sheer hatred in his eyes. Severus loathes Harry; he has done since the moment the boy walked through the gates wearing James Potters face, but even I will I will admit the man has saved Potter more times than I can count. I have never understood it. But remembering the man's frantic efforts to save the boy I am starting to doubt my previous judgement.

"Of all the things I had expected to encounter in my lifetime, Albus," Severus continues harshly and even I flinch back from the sudden force erupting from him. "Harry Potter slitting his own wrists was not one of them." He is snarling as he strides forward wand in hand, and I find myself having to flash a warming glance at the two Healers to stop them intervening. "What am I missing, Albus? What aren't you telling us?"

"Severus, it -"

"Don't you dare tell me that you have it all in hand Albus!" I don't think I have ever seen Severus this incensed and even I'm reaching for my wand in case things get nasty. His eyes are flashing violently and the aura around him is building forcibly; you'd have to be a muggle not to see the anguish and anger swirling around him. "You were not the one pounding on a sixteen year olds child chest, begging him to breathe! That was not a spoilt child making a bid for attention, Albus. Potter wanted to die and he damn near succeeded. So what am I missing!? The child I thought I knew who not have done that. James Potter would never have even contemplated it. But Potter...Harry, he was desperate and he damn near succeeded. What did you ask him to do?"

**_I know I'm not worth anything. I am nothing. The only thing I'm good at it causing chaos and destruction. You look at me but don't see me. Only Professor Snape sees what I really am._ **

And suddenly, I remember the images, the memories that were thrown back at me by that strange presence. The child huddled in a closet, tears streaking down a bruised and battered face with green eyes filled with helplessness and despair. The same child desperately trying to complete scrubbing the kitchen before his relatives got home, terrified of what would happen to him if he failed. The teenager hurled against a wall by someone three times his size, unable to defend himself despite the wand in his trunk. The youngster pulling a blade across his own skin almost lovingly, watching the blood flow in relief, completely alone and isolated when we should have been supporting him. And of course, the young adult watching his god-father fall through a veil, his desperate grief and need to join him when everyone else had deserted him. The images I have of the boy don't immediately fit with the new memories, but looking back over through the years I can see how they fit. This is the boy we let down so badly.

"He was never spoilt, Severus," I say softly. "He was never spoilt. He was beaten and neglected in the muggle world; ignored and stuffed into a closet. He was acclaimed and treated as a hero by the magical world until we all turned our backs on him without any warning. He never had a chance to become James Potter, the muggle relatives beat that out of him and we never even noticed what he was going through. He was never spoilt. He was just a hurting, scared child who has done everything he can over the last years to live up to everyone's expectations but now he's lost too much and was asked to do too much. He broke. We broke him."

Severus' eyes turn to mine and I don't look away. For a minute Albus is forgotten; he isn't there. Both of us can still see the vivid sight of a young boy's blood spilled across the floor as the child lies completely lifeless in front of us. Both of us know the terror that gripped our hearts at the sight of the Boy-Who-Lived lying completely motionless, so white and still in that room. Harry. One of mine. I can see the anguish in those dark eyes almost as clearly as I can feel it in my own heart. We both have a lot to answer for.

"It would make sense," Severus says without the venom that of his previous words. "The lack of respect for authority figures, the inept attempts to kill himself over the years in defence of others. Why should he respect and obey when all that's previously gained him is more pain? Why should he preserve his own life when it obviously means so little to everyone around him?" But his eyes flash again as he looks back to Albus, and I find myself grateful not to be on the receiving end of that glare. "But he'd persevered so far, Albus. What did you say to break him?"

Albus looks down at his feet silently for a long moment, and for a moment I didn't think he was going to respond. But finally he speaks in a voice like cracked iron, looking so weary it is scary.

"I only wanted to prepare him..." he says mournfully. "He needed to be prepared..."

"Prepared for what!?" I find myself snapping harshly without even thinking about it. "The boy knocked out a twelve foot mountain troll, saved the Philosopher's Stone, killed a basilisk, put himself on the line for a man we all believed to be a mass-murderer. Somehow, with the luck of the Gods themselves he walked out each and every occasion with his head held high. He was pitted against students three years older than him in a ridiculous tournament that should never have happened and then watched Cedric Diggory die and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named come back from the dead using his own blood to complete the ritual. He still managed to come out standing, he never let despair take over. He spent a year being mocked and humiliated by the entire wizarding world whilst we stood back doing nothing and then to top it off he watched his god-father die in front of his very eyes. Even then, after everything all he did was to throw some things around your office. But something tipped him over the edge and it was something to do with you, Albus. What did you tell him? What did he have to be prepared for that made him make that choice!?"

Both me and Severus are glaring daggers at our esteemed headmaster as the two Healers shuffle uncomfortably behind us, we are getting answers before this day is out or my name is not Minerva McGonagall. Albus however is uncharacteristically silent. No excuses, no reasons, no answers. Silence.

"Do you not understand, Albus?" Severus bursts out suddenly, taking all of us by surprise. Again, I am shocked by the sheer ferocity in his voice; over the years I have seen the man in various states but this is new. Intensity is pouring out of him in waves. "After everything I have done, you still don't understand. We nearly lost Potter today. You say you love the boy, then show it! If this is what happens when you love someone, I honestly don't know what happens when you hate them." His tone softens and although it keeps all the snideness and anger there's a touch of something I can't quite place. "Potter broke and it wasn't just losing that ignorant mutt that caused it. No matter what else I think about the brat; through sheer dumb luck, friends with more brains than his and a helpful dose of idiotic recklessness he has come through more than most adults do in their lifetimes. Whatever you said to him, broke him. What did you say?"

More silence and I find my temper at the end of its tether.

"Albus Percival Dumbledore," I snap sharply. "You will tell us now or I swear on the bones of Godric Gryffindor himself that I will hang you off the Astronomy Tower by a certain section of your anatomy and leave you there." Albus glances at me slightly as if to judge how serious I am; whatever answer he finds in my eyes causes him to blanche and edge away from me. "I do not make idle threats as you are more than aware. You owe Potter this."

"I told him the Prophecy," Albus says slowly, finally answering me even if I don't understand what he means. "The full prophecy."

I was about to ask Albus to expand when there's a near silent hiss from Severus beside me. I turn to look at him and am shocked by how pale he's become. I have to admit, I nearly called the Healers over before he spoke in a voice that was more of a snarl than anything.

"'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...' That's all I know of it." He looks up sharply. "Am I right, Albus?"

The look on Albus' face is proof enough.

"What's the full prophecy?" My views of Divination are clear to anyone who bothers to ask, but it's clear that both men have put stock in this prophecy and neither are fools. I'd trust either with my life. "Tell me Albus, what is the full prophecy? What did you tell the boy?"

**_I'm sorry. I'm not a saviour, I'm not a hero_ ** _._

No. You're not. You're a teenage boy and we have put far too much on your young shoulders year after year and just blindly expected you to deal with it. You're a boy with a heart of gold and I should have protected you. For someone with decades of dealing teenagers, I have run appalling interference on this one...and by the sounds of it I should also have been protecting him from a man I trust above all else.

"That's between Mister Potter and myself," Albus seems to rally slightly but is cut off again by Severus.

"No." His voice is harsh. "No, it's not. It stopped being between Potter and you when he decided to open his wrists up in the middle of the night with no warning. It stopped being between Potter and you when I had to pound on the boys chest trying to get his heart to start, Headmaster. It should never have just been between you and Potter."

"I can't..."

"Do you know what it must have taken to open that room, Albus?" I interject acidly. "The Room of Requirement, the house-elf called it. It wasn't just a fleeting fancy that crossed the boys mind, it wasn't something he just vaguely wanted. To open that room he **needed** it. Death was the only option he felt was left." There's a silence as I just look at the man, willing him to understand. "For the love you bear Harry, tell us. Albus, we cannot hope to help him otherwise."

Another long silence and I was just preparing to launch another argument before Albus speaks. But there is no twinkle in his eyes when he does. No twinkle at all.

_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ..."_

The silence in the room is absolute but the power is building to almost untameable levels. This is what he told Harry. That he must die or be killed. That the fate of the entire wizarding world lies on his young shoulders. And we wondered why the boy broke. He lost everything and everyone closest to him and then Albus decided to drop that bombshell on him? I want to cry, I want to throw things. I want to hug the boy and I want to throttle the man in front of me.

"Albus..." I can barely restrain my rage when I get a grip on my tongue again. "Albus... You are a confounded fool. Sirius' death may have cracked him badly but you broke him. I hope you're proud of yourself."

I see the tears falling down that old, wise face.

He loves Harry.

But his love has destroyed him.


	4. Another Young Griffin

**Trigger Warning: Suicidal Ideation and references to Self-Harm**

I never thought I'd have to do this. It's not the first time I've been sat waiting for one of my young charges to come round in the Hospital Wing, it's not even the first time I've been sat on the edge of a hospital bed for hours on end and it's certainly not the first time I've been waiting for information on one Harry Potter. Harry Potter; the boy who has spent more time in the Hospital Wing over the last six years than any other student combined. It is however the first time I have been sat, waiting and watching, with such an awful feeling of guilt crushing my chest and making it so difficult to breathe. The boy looks so peaceful lying on that bed and as he is no longer deathly white, he could almost be simply sleeping. Except he isn't. None of us who were present when we found him can even try to forget that. None of can forget the blood which seemed to have spread everywhere or the gaping wounds, now so neatly bandaged. The effect on both myself and Poppy is obvious to see but even Severus is acting differently; there's been no more of his jibes about Potter since that night, no more comparing him to his father. Instead, every time he's passed by the Hospital Wing he's stopped by and despite never asking the question out loud, it is clear in his eyes; _Any improvement?_ The question we all need answering.

I stretch my stiff limbs out before deciding I need to walk around for a bit before I freeze up on this bed completely. Nodding at Poppy as I pass her, I approach the entrance to the Hospital Wing and suddenly catch the murmured whispers outside the door. I can't help the smile that quirks the corners of my mouth. I am not the only one who has kept a near constant vigil over Potter through the last few days and it's been a relief to see that his friends are sticking by him. One of the group is almost always around, often more than that and it doesn't seem to matter how many times Poppy chases them out; they never go far away. Even now, when it's officially past curfew, they're still there. I silently move closer to catch what the group is talking about before I pack them back to their dormitories for the night.

"I just don't understand why he'd do this!" the tear filled and slightly hysterical voice of Granger rises slightly above the other voices. I have to admit, my heart goes out to the girl. She's the best and brightest of the year, in fact she's one of the best I have seen in my many years teaching but this is far beyond her comprehension or her experience. Ever since that troll incident near five years ago now, her Potter and Weasley have been virtually inseparable; she has been by Potter's side throughout everything and is one of the very few people who has never turned on him. This must be absolutely devastating to the girl. "How could he do this to us!? Why didn't he talk to us!?"

There's a long, pregnant silence after her words as no-one knows quite how to answer her question; how can they answer her question when they don't know themselves. I can hear the sense of betrayal running through Granger's tone, loss and guilt yes, but there is also an anger that Potter could even contemplate abandoning her when she has never abandoned him. There's a definite sense of betrayal that he didn't think about anyone else. He didn't tell her, didn't come to her for help, instead decided to take it into his own hands and tried to leave them all forever. The silence stretches on for so long that I was just about to step forwards and announce my presence when the quiet voice of Longbottom stops me before I can take more than a step. There's none of the hysteria that is so obvious in Granger's tone, instead his words are soft but with a touch of urgency that grabs my attention as I lean in closer.

"I understand why he did it." That more than anything stops me in my tracks. It certainly isn't something I'd expected Longbottom to come out with and for a second I wonder whether I misheard the boy. I creep forwards slightly so that I can actually see the group standing outside the Hospital Wing and it's clear that they are just as thrown by his comment as I am. Granger and the Weasley girl are looking at him in horror and the Weasley boy looks completely confused. The only person who doesn't seem fazed is the Ravenclaw girl Lovegood, but then again she is rarely fazed by anything at all. I suppose it's difficult to be fazed by things when you hold a firm belief in the existence of Wrackspurts and Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. It's very noticeable that the group which has been keeping the vigil over Potter is the same group which accompanied him to the Ministry of Magic last year; somehow the bonds of friendship had grown stronger than I had realised. "You don't understand because you haven't been there. You can't understand. I can."

"Neville!?" the Weasley girl gasps in shock, and I can't help but understand where she's coming from. "Neville, you can't mean that!"

"I mean it," the boy says firmly with a rare fire to those hazel eyes. Looking at him now, there's something to his expression that makes me believe him, something that screams out that he knows what he's talking about, that he's not exaggerating. "None of you really understand what loneliness is; Hermione, you might have been lonely when you started but since then you've been attached at the hip with Ron and Harry. Luna is probably the only one with a chance of understanding. None of you can comprehend the dark hole inside yourself that you can't fill no matter how hard you try. None you really know what it's like when you are shunned by everyone around you just for being yourself, none of you can understand how it feels to hate yourself every day and night that you're alive simply because you can never live up to the standards you are meant to meet. Because you can never be good enough. How can you hope to understand?"

There's a shocked silence as the boy looks at each one of them in turn and they all flinch backwards slightly, again with the exception of Lovegood whose grey eyes meet Longbottom's unflinchingly. He's right, out of everyone there, she is probably the only one who has gone through the same thing. Filius often ends the year in a complete rage after having to locate pieces of her clothing that the other students have hidden in various areas of the school; he can't abide bullying but as Miss Lovegood won't say anything and the perpetrators are unlikely to step forward by themselves there is little he can do about it. She too knows what it's like being different. Looking back at Longbottom, I'm shocked by how vulnerable the boy looks but also by how old he looks.

"Last year was the first time I have ever felt like I fit in or belonged anywhere and that was only because that Umbridge woman led to the DA being created. It was only because Harry taught it," he continues softly, looking down at the floor once again. "It was the first time I ever felt useful or accepted…"

"It was like having friends…" Luna interrupts dreamily and I can't help the stab of pity I feel at how matter of factly she just came out with such a heart-breaking statement.

"Yes, it was," Neville nods slowly in agreement and it takes all of my will-power not to go over to the group and intercede. I don't think I want to hear what else he has to say, but I don't think I have a choice. "I had nothing before last year; my own House were ashamed of me and believed I should have been sorted into Hufflepuff, all of the Professor's with the exception of Professor Sprout thought I was completely useless – including my own Head of House, and as far as my family were concerned, I was little better than a Squib. Do you know how helpless and completely alone that makes you feel? Do you know how many times I've laid awake at night thinking about it, how to do it and what to leave behind? Do you have any idea how many plans I've made but never actually had the courage to go through with them, to be seen as even weaker than I already am?" His voice cracks slightly and I don't think I'm mistaken that he blinks away tears. "At least Harry had the courage to actually do it which is more than can be said for me."

He falls silent, looking steadfastly at his feet and the rest of them continue to stare at the boy in horrified shock. Myself included. I can't believe just how much I have missed, just how much I failed to see. How many students do we have here who are on the edge of breaking into thousands of fragments that we simply don't notice? How many times have we blithely turned a blind eye to the struggles and challenges our young charges are going through, blindly trusting that everything will work out, never realising just how close to the knife edge we are walking? By the sounds of it, it's something close to a miracle that Longbottom didn't give up long before Harry did; but I don't think it was cowardice that stopped him. Stubbornness maybe, but the fact that he is still standing shows a deep reserve of strength that I doubt the boy even recognises he has. I blink away the tears that have started to form in my own eyes. I have one boy lying in a hospital bed after slitting his own wrists in hopelessness and despair and I have another one of my young griffin's who has just openly admitted that not only has he felt like dying but that he's also made plans to do exactly that and I had no idea that either of them felt that way. I never noticed that two of my sixth years have been slowly breaking since the moment they entered the hallowed walls of Hogwarts. In reality, I never even looked. Once more I start to walk forwards, despite the fact that I have no idea what I'm actually going to say, but again a small voice interrupts me.

"But…but why didn't you talk to someone? Tell someone?"

Longbottom gives a harsh, bitter laugh that echoes down the corridor with ease. I don't like the sound of it; he's far too much of a nice boy to be laughing in that tone. It doesn't fit with the plump, shy and slightly bumbling youngster I see in my classes, it's too hard, too cruel. It's the sound of a much more bitter adult, not the boy I see in front of me. It isn't right.

"Who would I tell?" He asks bitingly. "Who would I talk to? Professor McGonagall? It's quite clear she sees me as a waste of space." My heart clenches further. Is that really the impression I have given to this boy? First Potter, now Longbottom…how many others have I let down so badly? How many others have I failed? "My grandmother?" He snarls fiercely. "The only thing I count for with her is to carry on the Longbottom name and hopefully have a son who is less useless than I am. Even if I died the only thing she'd mourn would be the family name, not me. So who would I talk to? It's not as if any of the other Professors are lining up to give moral support and counselling, Professor Sprout has her own House to deal with and nobody else even noticed me. So should I have spoken to another student? Which one? No-one cared about me." He stops Ginny Weasley as she opens her mouth to interrupt him again. "No. Don't. You might give a toss now, but you didn't two years ago. None of you did."

He looks around the group again before continuing; almost as if now he's started he can't stop, as if this had been building up inside of him for years, silently festering. But now the dam has been breached and everything is spilling over indiscriminately. Somewhere between his fear for Potter and the way he has felt for so many years, all the barriers he had built have been knocked down leaving nothing left to hold the flow.

"Do you have any idea how many suicide notes I have written over the years? How many times I've written the same words over and over and over again? I'm sorry for being so useless, I'm sorry I'm not good enough for you, I'm sorry I can't do this anymore; I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." His voice is getting louder as he goes but there is no mistaking the crack in his tone or the tears hiding behind the surface. I lean on the wall for support as he goes on. "And that's just me; stupid, useless Neville. I haven't done or been through half of what Harry's had to go through; I haven't had the entire wizarding world screaming for my blood and calling me a lunatic for a year, I didn't lose my godfather last summer. _How could he do this to us!?_ Is that what your question was, Hermione? _How could he do this to us?_ Surely the question should be, how could everyone have done that to him? How come he was expected to cope with all that when I couldn't even cope with just being isolated from my own year group? How come no one else cared enough to ask him?"

"That would include you as well though, wouldn't it Neville?"

If I didn't know how much the Weasley boy cares about Potter, I'd have assumed that was just a deliberately cruel question meant to wound, but I don't think it is. He's lashing out, yes, but he's lashing out purely because his best friend is lying in the Hospital Wing after nearly dying and everything Longbottom said rings true. There's more guilt behind that question than real anger; guilt, fear and shame. However, this was too personal to begin with and could easily escalate into something potentially dangerous; emotions are running far too high. Once more I step forwards, intending to intervene before wands are drawn or fists used. Once more I'm stopped.

"Yes," Longbottom replies quietly and I have to marvel at the amount of maturity it showed that the boy was willing to admit that. I really have misjudged this one over the years. "I got lost in the feeling that I finally belonged, that someone wanted me and that I could be useful. I didn't notice just how much Harry was suffering, just how close to giving up he was, and out of all of us I should have been the one to notice. Even when I saw the scars, I still didn't put two and two together; I just accepted his excuses when I should have realised exactly what was going on. I should have done something and I didn't. So yes, I should have noticed, should have asked, should have done something and I didn't."

"Scars?" Granger asks exactly what was going through my head quickly and quietly, as if afraid of the answer. "What scars?"

"That's…that's not something I can say," Longbottom murmurs and again my mind goes back to the images that room hurled back at me. The image of the child with bruises across his face and fear in those clear emerald eyes, but more importantly the image of the teenager contemplating a blade in silence as tears run down his cheeks. The memory of the boy picking it up and running it almost lovingly across his skin, watching as red beads of blood rise from his pale arm with a look of relief on his face, relief that is quickly overtaken by shame and fear. I know exactly what scars Longbottom is taking about, I wish I didn't, but I do.

Finally I get my feet to move; Longbottom's right, that isn't something Potter would want the world to know and if I don't step in now chances are Granger will hound the poor boy until he gives in just to shut her up. Even as I step forwards though, I still don't know what to say. What could possibly be appropriate, particularly when I wasn't intended to overhear any of that conversation let alone all of it? Stepping forwards quietly I say the only thing I can think of.

"I don't think you're useless or a waste of space, Mister Longbottom." As I speak, five heads whip around to meet me, shock reverberating off all of them at the sight of their stern Professor walking towards them. "I never have and I am truly sorry if that is the impression I have given you. That was never my intention."

The look the boy gives me is somewhere between horror that I heard what he had said and disbelief at the words I have just spoken. Gradually fear seems to encroach on his expression.

"How much did you…umm…how much did you hear, Professor?" he mumbles, eyes fixed firmly on his feet.

"Enough to know that Mister Potter isn't the only Gryffindor I have let down sorely over the last years," I say gently, watching as his eyes fly up to mine in confusion. "Enough to know that you need to be able to talk to someone. Would you prefer to talk to me or to Professor Sprout? Or is there someone else you'd be able to trust?"

"I'm fine," he mutters and I bite back my response that he is quite clearly not fine. Anyone who was fine would not have admitted what he just did, even if I wasn't meant to hear it. Anyone who is fine would not be writing suicide notes in secret and planning ways to die as he goes to sleep. That is most definitely not fine. "I didn't mean…"

"Yes you did, Neville," Miss Lovegood's voice appears as if out of nowhere but despite the dreamy look on her face I note she is looking straight at Longbottom, almost as if she can see through him or into him. "You meant every word you said. You bear the scars to prove it." She turned to the other three youngsters. "I think it's time for us to go now. We can come and see Harry again tomorrow." With that she started walking off, the others following more slowly sending concerned glances back towards Neville and myself.

"What scars, Neville?" I interrupt the silence which is growing oppressively long to ask. "What did Miss Lovegood mean by scars?"

I'm hoping my instincts aren't right, hoping it was some kind of metaphorical comment that the girl threw into the conversation so easily, but I don't think it was. There are many things Miss Lovegood can be accused of, but stupidity is not one of them and she seems to have a knack for seeing things which other people miss. Or perhaps it is simply that she is looking whilst others are too busy to notice. The look of absolute terror the teenager shoots me more than confirms my suspicions; if it was merely a spurious comment then there would be no need for that kind of reaction.

"It's nothing, Professor," he mumbles again, shooting a glance at the corridor behind us as if hoping for some kind of rescue. "I'm fine. Honest."

"No, Neville," I state as firmly as I can whilst still being gentle. "You are most definitely not fine. I have made many mistakes and I do not intend to make yet another by pretending to blithely believe you when it is more than obvious that you are anything but fine." The boy looks up at me and I can clearly see the tears he refuses to let fall shining in those hazel eyes. "Would you roll up your sleeves, Mister Longbottom?"

The look he flashes me is one of complete and total fear. Whatever Longbottom is hiding, he's petrified of me finding out and has clearly kept it hidden for a long, long time.

"I'm not going to judge you, Mister Longbottom," I continue slowly and cautiously. "I'm not going to get angry or tell you that you are merely being stupid. I want to help. That I promise you." This time I can see the conflict in his eyes; he wants the support that I am offering, he wants the chance to actually tell someone, to show his deepest fear but he doesn't know if he can trust me. He doesn't know if he dares to. "I don't make promises lightly, Mister Longbottom. You have my word and I don't give that lightly either. You don't even have to show me if you'd prefer not to. I can ask Madam Pomfrey to have a look if you'd prefer."

I'm shocked by how pale the boy suddenly goes; he's almost as pale as the night they found Potter's note and he backs up several steps, protectively clutching his right arm to his body as if I might force his sleeve up. The look in the boys eyes is one of sheer panic as he shakes his head violently, backing himself into the wall completely.

"No," he gasps out. "No."

"Mister Longbottom...Neville," I say with no small measure of concern. "I am not going to force you to do anything you are not comfortable with." I pause slightly, watching the boy carefully. "It might be best if you sit down for a while." Putting my hands gently onto his shoulders I ease him down onto the floor; I could seriously do without him collapsing on me if I can possibly avoid it. "Head between your knees for a moment, Mister Longbottom. Wait there, I'll be back in a second." His gaze flies back to mine, complete panic abundantly clear in his eyes. "No, I am not going to get Madam Pomfrey. But if I find you've moved from that spot before I get back then I will get Madam Pomfrey and I will have her drag you bodily back from Gryffindor Tower." I fix him with one of my sternest glares. "That is also a promise, Mister Longbottom."

That said, I stride firmly back into the Hospital Wing. I'm honestly not sure of how to process everything I've found out this evening, let alone deal with it, particularly so close to nearly watching Potter die.

"Poppy?" I call softly once I'm safely within the Hospital Wing doors.

"Yes, Minerva?" The response is almost immediate despite the fact that our medi-witch has been awake for even longer than I have and must be completely dead on her feet.

"Can you find me a Calming Draft, please Poppy?" I ask without thinking.

Immediately the woman is by my side, suddenly very much the professional medi-witch rather than the friend I've known for more years than I can count as she instinctively grasps my wrist with one hand whilst doing diagnostic scans with the other. Finally she looks up at me with a clear look of confusion on her face.

"What's wrong, Minerva?" she asks, obviously still rather concerned. "If it's just mild anxiety I can get you..."

"It's not for me, Poppy," I cut her off with a smile, watching the relief spread across her face. Thinking about it, I can see why she was so concerned. It's most unlike me to ask for any medication, let alone Calming Drafts or similar concoctions and she's known me too long not to know that. "I have a student outside in the midst of a panic attack and I need to calm him down before I can figure out what to do next."

"Ah, that makes more sense," Poppy comments as she collects her kit together. "Well, we ought to get moving."

"It's not quite as simple as that Poppy," I say calmly as I step in front of her, feeling anything but calm. I can't betray Longbottom's trust, yet I don't want to offend Poppy. "If we're not careful, we may have a second situation on our hands and the boy is loath to trust me as it is. If I bring you, he'll bolt." I smile to take the sting away from my words as I take the Calming Draft from her outstretched hand. "If I need you, I know where you are Poppy."

Going back out to Longbottom it was a relief to find him exactly where he had been sat when I left him; carrying forth my previous promise would have been uncomfortable in the extreme for all of us.

"Drink this, Mister Longbottom," I say, watching as he takes the vial with trembling fingers and downs it in one go. Slowly his breathing becomes more regular and he sags against the wall in relief. From the way he's behaving I would assume this is not the first time the boy has had a panic attack, even if it's the first time in my presence. "How often has that happened, Mister Longbottom?"

"Not too often, Professor," he replies slowly. "Not usually that bad either…"

"And your arm, Mister Longbottom," I return to the subject which caused all this trouble with a certain amount of hesitation. "Are you willing to let me see?"

Even with the Calming Draft, there's a sudden flash of fear in his eyes although it quickly vanishes. The boy is clearly terrified of me finding out, even though it's quite clear I already have a fair indication of what's going on. I've been teaching for too long not to, even if I'd missed it up til now. Somewhere between the paperwork and everything that happened over the last two years I have neglected to keep a close enough eye on my wards. That much is clear.

"You'll think I'm weak," he mutters softly. "You'll tell me I'm just being stupid. That it just shows how useless I really am."

"No, I most definitely will not," I state firmly. "I told you before, I'm not going to judge you Mister Longbottom, I want to help you."

He looks up at me briefly before closing his eyes and slowly rolling up the sleeve of his right arm carefully; it takes a fair amount of determination not to gasp at what's in front of me. Layers of criss-crossed scars decorate the pale skin, some clearly much older than others, with new wounds across them. There's nothing neat about the lines he's carved into himself, nothing ordered or precise; it is a complete web of scars and cuts, deeply etched into his own skin. This isn't a new fad that he's seen and decided to mimic for the hell of it; he's done this for a long time and is clearly quite adept at hiding the evidence. He isn't simply doing it for the attention.

"Well, Mister Longbottom," I say calmly, trying to hide the slight quaver in my voice. "I do believe some of them require medical attention. Would you be willing to see Madam Pomfrey now?" I'm hoping the Calming Draft has done the trick and that won't set him off again. I breathe a sigh of relief as he simply looks up at me and nods. "Right then, up we get."

Just as I'm helping Longbottom to stand, Madam Pomfrey herself appears in the doorway to the Hospital Wing, not blinking an eyelid at the rather strange spectacle of a Professor and student on the floor outside her domain.

"It's Potter," she says excitedly. "He's waking up."


	5. The-Boy-Who-Lived-Again?

"Why didn't you just let me die?"

My heart breaks anew as I look into those dull, empty eyes. Those emerald green eyes that should be sparking with vigour and youth are instead blank and dull, with no sign of the courageous young man we have all grown so used to. Even his voice sounds different; no sarcasm hiding behind his words or any angry gibes, just flat and tired with no emotion or expression within it. This is isn't the angry young man who smashed up his Headmaster's office or the mischievous son of James Potter I have come to know over the years and that perhaps is the most terrifying thing of all. I could handle anger, could cope with hysteria, even fear or betrayal would be better than the absolute nothingness I see in front of me now. That nothingness scares me more than I care to admit. We may have saved the boy's life but what use is that if we have merely brought back the empty shell of the child we love. Is Potter actually too far gone for rescue? After all the times he's played the saviour, will he simply refused to be saved himself?

Have we brought him back from the very brink of death only to have to go through it all again the next time he's left alone, and God help us, we can't watch him forever. We saved the boy through extra-ordinary circumstances; by all rights and purposes, Potter should be dead. He planned it all out far too well and we were able to bring him back through luck and quick action, but all he needs to do next time is simply not leave a note to be found. There's nothing in his face, body language or tone to even suggest he has any indication to connect with the world or any of the emotions that he expressed in his note. No apology, no helplessness or pain. I could help to channel anger, could try to work through despair or fear, could calm hysterics or soothe pain but what can I do here? What can I do when faced with this empty, drained young man who seems to have given up on life? How are we meant to bring Harry back?

"Because we care about you, Harry," I say softly, desperately willing the boy to understand, to look at me, even to shout at me. "We all care about you deeply, not just me. You had an entire army of house-elves looking for you – what other student can claim that? Even Professor Snape cares."

"No, you don't," the boy in front of me responds flatly, not even reacting with disbelief or confusion to my deliberate comment about Severus. "You care about The-Boy-Who-Lived, the Golden Boy, the one who'll save the entire Wizarding nation once again. I'm not that boy. I never was. You could have let me die right at least."

I close my eyes against the helplessness that is rising up through my body. But it's not just helplessness that threatens to overwhelm me; the fear that I might still lose this child and the guilt over how much more I should have done are like tidal waves crashing through my emotions. The problem is that every word the wounded boy in front of me has just said is true. I cannot blame him for his assumption, I can't judge him for his actions, I can't even be angry at him however much I'd like to. Now the initial fear has run its course and the relief settled in, I should be able to feel angry at the boy for making such a selfish and horrific choice. But I can't. Because every word is true. No matter how much I want to deny it? It's all true. And I haven't been much better than the rest of the Wizarding world.

What did I do when he came to me with his concerns about the Philosopher's Stone? Completely valid fears as it turned out. Instead of attempting to investigate whether there could possibly be any truth to what the group was so desperately trying to tell me, I ignored their warning and sent them away with a flea in their ear. The Boy-Who-Lived once again faced down He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. An eleven year old child took that burden on his small shoulders. What did I do when his best friends sister was taken into the Chamber of Secrets? What did I do when I knew that he was being reviled and mocked for being a Parselmouth or when he was isolated and alone due to those inane fears that he might be the Heir of Slytherin? I did absolutely nothing and once again Harry Potter ended up saving the day despite everything that had been said about him.

Despite everything a twelve year old boy brought Ginny Weasley out of the Chamber; he saved a girl we had all completely given up on. All of the 'responsible adults', with the exception of that fool Lockhart, were huddled in a group discussing plans to shut down the school and how we were going to manage it. Whilst we holed ourselves up in a room and gave in to the supposed inevitable, two twelve year old children not only found the Chamber of Secrets but then took on a basilisk on their own. It's not even as if they didn't try to get adult help, much like first year they tried approaching a member of staff, but Lockhart was even less use to them than I was with the Stone. At least I have the slim consolation that I have never tried to Obliviate them I suppose.

"We have all made mistakes, Harry," the gentle interruption from my side takes me by surprise and shakes me from my thoughts. I turn to find Filius standing at my side gazing up at the boy with concern and sorrow shining clearly in his dark eyes. I hadn't even heard him enter the room. "We are all human and we have all made mistakes. Our largest error must be that we have all been so impressed with your accomplishments and the bravery you have shown so many times over the last years that we never stopped to take what you felt into consideration. We never stopped to ask and to listen. You're right; we have let far too much rest on shoulders far too young to bear those burdens for so long. You have been expected to do far too much and none of us stepped in to intervene. We should have."

Throughout Filius' words Potter stared steadfastly down at his bed sheets with that same worrying lack of expression on his face. He doesn't even look up to register the fact that another Professor has joined the discussion. The silence seems to stretch on for hours with neither myself nor Filius knowing quite how to proceed; we need Potter to give us something to work with. We don't know what to do with this empty silence. But it's the silence that allows us to hear the quiet murmur that comes from the bed, so soft we can barely hear it even with the silence around us.

"My actions killed Cedric and Sirius," his eyes still don't leave the bed as he speaks. "They'd both be alive if it wasn't for me. I'm no Saviour. I never was and I can't be what the Wizarding world needs. That's not me. If I'm not here then maybe they have a chance. But they can't rely on me. I can't do it."

I exchange a silent, concerned glance with Filius at his words. I can't help but think of his actions then in third year when yet again all of the 'responsible' adults refused to accept the innocence of a man who had never been tried simply because of circumstantial evidence. Strong circumstantial evidence admittedly, but circumstantial nonetheless. None of us would lift a finger to help him and even actively helped to attempt to hunt him down so the Dementor's Kiss could be administered. None of us but Potter and his friends. The irrepressible and kind-hearted youngster in front of me was the only one willing to listen, to give the man he believed killed his parents the chance to explain and to make things right. Severus was in part right; it was extremely reckless not to mention potentially fatal and yet because of it Potter saved an innocent man's life just because he cares enough to listen and to believe when none of us would.

Three years running the child in front of us somehow managed the impossible, regardless of his age and relative inexperience, regardless of his treatment at the hands of his relative. Despite everything that should have stopped him, warped him or changed him, the boy managed the impossible and the Wizarding world loved him for it. Or so we thought. But again, he's right. They didn't love Harry, they didn't love the emerald eyed child who came so innocently to Hogwarts not even knowing his own past let alone the expectations the world had of him. They loved the image of him that they themselves had created. They loved the Saviour of the Wizarding world, the lightning shaped scar marking him as different, the bravery and the impulsiveness that made him stand out. They loved something which had never really existed. They never loved Harry for himself, they never saw the frightened child locked in a cupboard and let down by all those who should be protecting him, the boy hurt by those entrusted to care for him. They didn't want to see the terror lying so close behind the surface as he darted from one narrow escape to another, somehow always managing to come out with his head held high, despite none of us stepping in to intervene.

Until the Tournament of course. Until Cedric died. Until everything really started to fall apart and the Boy-Who-Lived fell from grace. But how can I judge? It wasn't as if I'd been much better.

"You didn't kill Mister Diggory or Sirius," I say, keeping the gentle tone Filius had set as I wrench my mind away from all those reflections of what I should have and focus solely on the pale boy in front of me. "Sirius was a grown man, more than capable of making his own decisions and choices…"

That is only partly true though, I reflect again morbidly. Sirius was barely twenty when he was wrongly arrested and thrown into Azkaban, and could never have been considered a particularly mature twenty. There were no signs of settling down like James and Lily. Had he been allowed to live his life, perhaps he would have matured, but twelve years in Azkaban doesn't leave a lot of time for emotional maturity. And unfortunately, Sirius was never one to listen overmuch to advice, instructions or orders. That had been his downfall many times in the past. He died as he lived; trapped in the mentality of a teenager and barrelling headfirst into situations regardless of the potential consequences, but I can't say that to Harry.

"…He made the conscious decision to go against Professor Dumbledore's very specific instructions to stay at Grimmauld Place and let the fully trained Order members go in." There's a brief flash of something I don't quite recognise in the youngsters eyes but it's gone almost as soon as it appears. "Under no circumstances am I blaming Sirius for his own death, you understand. It is simply that you cannot take responsibility for either his actions or the actions of the Death Eaters. It wasn't your fault. Cedric…"

Here I stop for a long moment, arching my fingers over the bridge of my nose and pinching down wearily. That is a loss that still runs deep within all of us, regardless of House affinity or how well you knew the young man personally; he was a striking figure on and off the Quidditch Pitch, was genuinely helpful and friendly and was the School Champion to boot. Pomona and her Hufflepuff's may have felt the loss more keenly, but it had a distinct impact on all of us. It suddenly became clear to everyone that nowhere was truly safe and age was not a factor either. We were all vulnerable.

"…Mister Diggory was a truly tragic loss we will all agree, but neither of you could have anticipated the events of the Third Task. Nobody could have. You were the one who gave his parents the gift of at least having their sons body to mourn over." Still the boy refuses to look at me, refuses to acknowledge what I've said and I feel my heart breaking all over again. "Harry, please listen to us. If you'd have seen the looks on your friends faces that night you'd understand just how much they care about you, just how much we all do."

"Of course he doesn't care," the biting tone from behind me cuts straight through my attempts to get through to him and I turn in horror to see Severus leaning carefully against the door of the Hospital Wing with a sneer fixed firmly upon his face. "Why should he care about anyone else? After all he is the boy who lived, it's everyone else's responsibility to care about him, not the other way round after all."

I can't believe what I'm hearing. Severus' hatred for James Potter is well known but I cannot believe I am listening to the man taunt a boy who nearly died, a boy he himself tried so very hard to keep alive. I thought we were past this. I thought the events of the past days had changed things, that Severus had moved past this petty hatred. Glancing across at Poppy I can see that she looks just as horrified as I feel; we didn't drag the child back from near death just to watch him be humiliated and mocked. I opened my mouth to give Severus a piece of my mind, regardless of the two students in the wing just as a sharp pain in my elbow jolted me suddenly. No diagnostics were needed though; that was almost certainly a carefully aimed Stinging Hex.

I glare furiously down at Filius. Considering that Potter's wand has been confiscated for his own safety and Severus is paying me little heed, there's little doubt that Filius was responsible for that hex. It may well be two members of faculty receiving the sharp end of my tongue at this rate regardless of his reasoning. I haven't been subjected to petty hexes in many years and I don't plan to start now, duelling champion or not. Filius however does not seem to understand the meaning of my glare, or he does and completely disregards it. Instead the smaller man rolls his eyes slightly and motions sharply across to Potter with his head. Despite my fury, I look over instinctively.

For the first time since he woke up I can see real emotion in those striking emerald eyes as he glares hatefully back at Severus. The emptiness that was causing me so much concern has vanished at least for the moment and the anger flashing so strongly actually fills me with a surge of hope. Severus' tactics may leave a lot to be desired, but despite everything his harsh and unfair words have provoked a response from the boy where both I and Filius failed. I don't know whether that was Severus' actual intention but judging from the slight smirk that graces the man's lips, it certainly crossed his mind.

"Why should our resident celebrity care about the chaos he wrecked by his selfish and completely irresponsible actions?" Severus continues in a slow drawl and I watch Potter's fists slowly clench on the bed. "Why should he have to care about how terrified his 'friends' were? How devastated they all are? After all, everyone else is just an inconvenience to the Boy-Who-Lived aren't they? He didn't have to look them in the eyes when they realised what he was planning to do."

"What do you know about it? How the hell can you judge?" Potter finally snaps, eyes locked on the Potions Master. "You hate me. You always have. You're probably just disappointed they saved me."

Glancing over at Severus I'm surprised at the obvious flash of anger in those dark eyes quickly suppressed and hidden. It's that flash that drives home to me exactly what the man was trying to achieve with his cruel and cutting remarks. He wasn't trying to hurt the boy further, he was attempting to bait him in the way only Severus could, he was trying to get a reaction out of the boy. He certainly succeeded.

" _They_ saved you?" Severus remarks quietly, eyes never leaving the child on the bed. "Who do you believe these _they_ are, Mister Potter?"

There's a flash of uncertainly on Potter's face as he glances between me and Poppy. Slowly his eyes go back to Severus. They widen as he recognises the importance of the word Severus was stressing so obviously. _They._ The flush of anger that had risen up the boy's face at Severus' previous comments vanishes, leaving him deathly pale. He looks so vulnerable as he gazes at Severus' in horrified confusion that it's heart-breaking.

"You?" He asks disbelievingly. "Why would you…"

"Yes, Mister Potter. It is within my responsibilities as a member of staff to attempt to keep the students alive long enough to graduate, after all," Severus responds drily. "Who else do you think would be accomplished in the muggle concept of CPR to keep your heart beating despite your astonishingly thorough attempt to stop it? Considering your track record so far that was quite an impressive achievement."

Those emerald eyes impossibly seem to widen further. I'm unsure as to whether it is at Severus' admission that he can perform CPR and did so to save James Potter's son or at the closest I have ever heard the man come to actually complimenting a Gryffindor. The latter even surprises myself and I find myself glancing sharply at the younger man once more. The fact that Potter was so near successful is not something we should be complimenting him on.

"You weren't meant to find me," the boy murmurs quietly responding to Severus' second comment rather than the first. "Nobody was meant to find me." He looks up sharply and I can't express the relief I feel at seeing some form of expression in his eyes, some form of connection to the world. "How did you find me?"

"That I could have deduced without your wondrous insight, Mister Potter," Severus drawls in an almost bored tone. "Unfortunately you did not factor your fellow students having light sleeping habits into your plan, nor the tenacity of the Hogwarts house elves when put to the test for that matter."

If it wasn't such a serious situation I'd almost be amused at the looks of utter confusion on both Potter and Poppy's face. It's as if Severus is talking about the weather and had I not seen how frantically he worked to save the boy's life I'd almost believe he honestly doesn't care. If I hadn't watched just how lost he seemed when the boy was taken out of his hands I'd truly believe he was completely heartless. But I did see and I did watch.

"Severus, I believe that's quite…" Poppy starts authoritively walking towards Severus.

"No, Poppy," the man cuts over her with practiced ease completely ignoring the look of utter fury on the medi-witches face. There will be utter hell to pay after this. "I do believe the boy deserves to be informed of just how near successful he was and how much effort was required to save his foolhardy skin. After all, it proves he's good at something."

Potter flinches and I can't bear to see the anguish in his eyes but still Severus doesn't take his eyes off the boy, the only sign that he knows I'm about to interfere a sharp movement of his hand. I desperately want to combat his words, to tell Potter just how much he means to everyone here; not just for the saviour, not just for the pawn, but for Harry Potter, the hurting, terrified child. Harry Potter, the boy no-one seemed to see. Harry Potter, the child who was asked to do far too much and given so little in return. But something in that hand motion makes me stop. Something makes me wait. Severus clearly has something planned.

"I see you for what you really are, Mister Potter," Severus' voice has changed somehow; become softer, more gentle but I from the look of terror Potter shoots him I doubt the boy has registered that fact. He's waiting for Severus to confirm his complete lack of worth, he's waiting to be told just how right he was and the thought clearly terrifies him. "Just as you wrote; _Only Professor Snape sees what I really am._ Those were your words, correct?"

The nod the child eventually gives is almost imperceptible but I know for a racing certainty that Severus caught it. I find myself desperately hoping my trust in Severus is not misplaced. We have already broken the boy once, if Severus does it now the damage will be irreparable. He's made contact with the boy; he's somehow managed to pull him out of the nothingness that existed when myself and Filius tried. If he breaks him now I swear I will kill him with my own two hands. That's if Poppy doesn't get there first.

"You are quite correct. I see who you really are, Mister Potter," Severus continues in that strange almost gentle voice, so at odds with his normal temperament. "I don't see you as a saviour or a hero or a pawn. I see a stubborn, wilful and incredibly tenacious young man who nearly gave us all a heart attack when he attempted to throw his life away. Believe it or not I include myself in that sentence."

He stops briefly looking at the boy as if judging if what he was saying was being absorbed. From the look on Potter's face, it is. Tears have welled up in those striking eyes although he appears desperate not to let them fall.

"I see a strong-willed young man with both an astonishing knack for causing trouble and a fixation on saving those he cares about. I see a young man who has come through more than should be possible. I see the man you could become, the influence you could wield, the potential you have. So you were wrong. It has perhaps taken me a long time to realise it, but I can see your mother."

There's utter silence in the room as everyone stares at Severus in complete shock. After so many years of hating Potter for having his father's face, that was the last thing that any of us expected. The tears that had been held so stubbornly begin to fall down the young man's cheeks even though he doesn't make a sound. If we weren't looking at him I doubt we'd even realise he was crying. What child has to learn to cry silently? How did I never realise? They has been under my care for over five years and I never noticed anything. I never saw Longbottom either.

"I didn't work to save you because you are Lily Potter's son though or because of some inane prophecy," Severus finishes quietly, his dark eyes shining slightly. "I saved you because despite every foolhardy, brash and insane stunt you have successfully stumbled through by dumb luck and guidance during your years here, you have the potential to be an exceptional young wizard in your own right."

Suddenly Severus seems to realise just what he's said and who he has said it too.

"If you do decide to do something quite so dramatically and astonishingly stupid again though, Potter," he remarks with complete precision and control. "I will be highly tempted to finish the job you started and believe me; I have far more painful methods at my disposal."

Severus turns to walk out the walk out the door but stops suddenly.

"Perhaps you ought to take a new title. The-Boy-Who-Lived-Again perhaps?"

Well. Some things never change.


	6. My Son, My Boy, My Boy

Sat in my office, surrounded by piles of parchment and marking that reach higher and higher each day, I stare blankly at the amassing paperwork. It's been well over a week since that fateful call in the middle of the night, the frightened teenagers clutching a crumbled slip of paper and desperately hoping that I would be able to save their friend. It's been a week and for the majority of that week it has seemed to me as if time has stood still. Meals have been subdued and classrooms silent, even the Slytherins unwilling to break the sombre atmosphere.

Everyone of course knows what happened although no formal announcement has been made to the school as a whole. I am not sure if that is a mistake. The Hogwarts rumour mill can be vicious at times and I personally would have preferred a school wide announcement; minimal information but completely factual. As it is, I can only control what has been told to my Gryffindors. There was little point not telling them when they would only find out from my sixth years. What has been spreading around the other houses, I dread to think. Considering a fair proportion of them were turfed out of bed by house-elves that night, the rumour mill must be going strong.

Time is clearly passing, shown mainly by these ever increasing piles of parchment on my desk. At some point I am going to have to put aside time in order to get this work done; my sixth and seventh year students deserve that of me. They are the ones who are most likely to pay for my inattention. Yet, time stands still and all I can think about is my courageous, selfless young Griffin, still confined to the Hospital Wing. Confined for his own safety; one of my own who chose death over reaching out. Because he didn't think I would act, would help, would try. And another of my young charges who is hurting so badly that he carved up his own flesh and skin believing nobody cared about him. Two of my own so afraid, so vulnerable and I didn't even notice. Two sixteen-year-old boys under my care, making those decisions.

Every time I look down at those piles of parchment, my thoughts start whirling and all I can see is the blood, all that blood, the frighteningly small and frail boy, so white and yet so peaceful. All I feel is the gut-wrenching panic at the real fear that we had lost him. And if I shake those images, those feelings, then the panic stricken face of young Longbottom forces its way into my mind's eye instead, the jagged cuts and scars showing how long I had overlooked his anguish and his pain. If I have missed two, two in the same year, how many other youngsters are struggling to get through each day, an hour at a time, believing they have nowhere to turn, no one they can trust. How many tears are shed that I know nothing about? Not tears of childish homesickness, but fearful, anguished tears.

It is unbecoming of me to be so distracted. I am more than aware of this. And yet, every time I stop for a moment long enough to think, my mind wanders down those paths. So I am sat here once more, staring blindly at the piles in front of me, getting no further through the mounds of tasks that are calling for my attention when an owl swoops through my open window and lands carefully on top of one of the piles of parchment. It wobbles slightly, but somehow doesn't collapse as I remove the parchment from the owl's leg.

_Professor McGonagall,_

_May I speak to the boy?_

_Amos_

The words are written in a slightly shaky hand and despite the simplicity of them, I find myself reading them twice and then a third time. I haven't had any contact with Amos since that dreadful day over a year ago now when Harry brought Cedric's body back from that graveyard. I will never forget his heart-rending cry on seeing his son's dead body; "That's my son. That's my boy. That's my boy." Words that are etched somewhere deep in my heart and will likely remain there until I pass from this world. Pomona has spoken to the man fairly frequently over the last year, getting his wishes and approval on the small memorial garden that is dedicated to Cedric. I have had no part in that however.

By 'boy' Amos can only possibly mean Harry Potter, the one who brought Cedric's body home. I can't see how he could possibly do any harm and it might even possibly do some good. Amos made it clear he didn't blame Harry for Cedric's death, he thanked him for his consideration. I don't even ask how Amos knows; the Daily Prophet may have been mercifully silent on this matter but the students would have told their parents and who knows who has then told what. All of Cedric's old classmates have now graduated but there are always younger siblings with information from the gossip mill. Younger siblings with parents who still remember Cedric fondly and have stayed in contact with his parents. And anything that does not do harm might well do good. So I send the reply owl and then open my floo up for visitors before sitting and waiting.

Amos, when he arrives, is no longer the tall, proud man I remember from the Triwizard tasks; his back is slightly stooped making him seem smaller than I remember, his skin is far paler with none of the ruddy healthiness that comes from good food and firewhiskey. He's also lost a significant amount of weight and his hair is more than peppered with grey, if anything grey hair is peppered with brown. When he looks at me silently I can see the grief that still shadows his face and must never leave his eyes. _My son, My boy, My boy._ He smiles slightly but it doesn't shake the grief in those eyes and steps forwards with a hand outstretched.

"Thank you for permitting this, Professor," he says, his voice quieter than I remember and with none of the passion or power. Somehow, I get the impression that a part of him died along with his son and it isn't something that can ever be replaced. "I heard rumours… that Harry Potter…"

"Tried to kill himself, yes." My voice is curt and sharp to hide the pain those words still cause me, but judging from the look on Amos' face I wasn't successful. He understands loss all too well. _My boy, My boy._ "Was very nearly successful. If it hadn't have been for the quick wittedness of his best friend Mister Weasley, the remarkable reactions of the house elves and the medical knowledge of Professor Snape and Madam Pomfrey… He would have been successful."

I leave out the help of Hogwarts itself; there are some secrets that are worth keeping and that I believe is one of them. Even Albus doesn't have the full story there. One of these days I will tell Filius. But there was something deeply personal in that, what I can only call communication, between the castle and me. It responded to me with memories that only the child should have access to. I still don't know what to make of it all.

"Would I be able to speak to him?" Amos isn't that much older than Severus, he was a couple of years above if memory serves me right, yet looking at him now he seems far older, far frailer than my colleague. "I need to let him know… He has to know that he wasn't to blame. I said it at the time. I need to make sure he understands."

"I don't know how much you'll get out of the boy," I reply with a slow, sad smile that can't possibly reach my eyes. Young Potter is more engaged with us now; Severus was successful in getting through to him, but the child still alternates between listless emptiness and sorrow with occasional bursts of anger. Out of all of the emotions, I find the anger the easiest to deal with. The emptiness is by far the worst. It does not take Severus' skills at Legilimency to know that the boy is still a severe risk to himself. That I can see with my eyes alone. "But I can't say it will hurt him to hear that."

We walk down to the Hospital Wing and I find myself having to slow down to keep pace with Amos; he even walks like an old man although he can't yet be forty. But then I suppose, even old men don't expect to have to bury their children. Certainly not in peace time. Amos has earned the right to be an old man before his time if anyone has.

Stepping into the Hospital Wing, Amos' eyes fly straight to the young Potter boy and his breath whistles through his teeth at the sight of him. This isn't the fit, lean and determined young man who went head to head with adolescents several years older than him and came out fighting; Harry is thin, far too thin even under the ministrations of Poppy. The bandages that had covered his arms have been removed but there's no escaping the perfectly straight scars that virtually take over his arms. Poppy could have removed even those, that reminder of what he did, what we all went through but has decided not to. But most of all, it is the child's eyes that are the most different, even though Amos' gaze is locked on those two virtually identical scars.

"Perfectly aimed cutting charms," he murmurs, brown eyes fixed on Harry's own, mirroring grief back at each other. He steps silently across the room until he's right next to the youngsters bed, eyes never leaving Harry's. I linger uncertainly near the door, feeling like an intruder in my own school for some reason that I cannot quite place. "You really weren't messing around, were you lad?"

Harry doesn't answer him, but Amos doesn't seem to have expected or required an answer. Instead he perches on the end of the bed, looking ridiculously oversized next to the child, regardless of the weight he himself has lost. My heart clenches as I look between the boy and the man. Both have lost something so very precious to them. Both have suffered so terribly at the hands of You-Know-Who. Amos from the first shot of this new war. Harry has been suffering almost from the moment he was born. The wizarding world expected him to be their saviour. A child. A babe in arms. A teenager. So vulnerable. So alone.

"I know my words will mean little to you, but I felt I had to say something Harry," Amos speaks quietly, his words only just reaching me even as I step closer to the bed. I shouldn't listen in, this conversation isn't for my ears and yet, Amos never asked me to leave. "I don't know why you did what you did. I don't pretend to know your reasons. But I know grief. I know guilt. I know shame."

Young Potter's eyes seem to fix on the man with more intensity than I have seen since Severus baited the boy so effectively. Unlike then however, there is no anger on that young face; there is grief and something else, guilt. Guilt and shame. Amos has hit the nail on the head. Harry opens his mouth soundlessly, wordlessly, but Amos seems to understand what he cannot say.

"No." Amos' words are still quiet, yet there is a force behind his tone that is more like the man I knew before the tragedy. "On that you are incorrect, Harry. You did not kill my Cedric, my beautiful, brave Cedric. Lord… Vol…" He stops, stutters and swallows hard before trying again. "Lord Voldemort. That monster killed my son. Not you."

"Kill the spare." Harry's voice seems to be dragged out of him from a distance, the words rattling from his lips like pebbles cast adrift on the shore. "The spare. Cedric wouldn't have been there if it wasn't for me. He wouldn't have been the spare."

I don't imagine the flinch that Amos gives at those words, those two words that must haunt his nightmares and his every waking moment. The spare. His child, the joy and the pride of his life reduced down to those two words. Those two cruel careless words. The spare. _That's my son. That's my boy. That's my boy._ Of all the insults, that careless dismissal of everything that boy could have been, all his talents, all his abilities, killed simply because he wasn't Harry Potter, that must hurt the most.

"I'll be honest with you Harry," Amos says and there is no mistaking the real pain in his voice, the heartache in his expression. "When my Cedric died, I was angry. I was absolutely furious. I was heart-broken and grief-stricken. I was devastated. My whole world fell to pieces on that one turn of the die."

I step forwards slightly, but Amos meets my worried gaze solidly with a single shake of his head. I have to take it on trust that whatever he is going to say, he isn't going to hurt my boy any more. _My child. My boy. My boy._ What a lot to base on trust alone. Trust of someone who has become a virtual stranger to me. Yet, I trust him. He has no intention of hurting young Potter. And if he does, then Albus is not the only person I am willing to string from the Astronomy Tower from a sensitive area of his anatomy.

"But I was never angry with you Harry. Not once, through those terrible hours that stretched into days. Days that became months until we stood at a memorial garden to commemorate a whole year since my Cedric died. Three hundred and sixty-five days, two thousand and eighty-seven hours, five hundred and twenty-five thousand and six hundred minutes since my dear, brave boy left me and his mother."

Amos' gaze stay locked on the emerald green eyes in front of him, both sparkling with unshed tears. He reaches out silently and clasps the youngsters hand in his own, Harry jolts slightly but surprises me by not flinching away. He hasn't even permitted Albus to touch him, actively flinching away from any physical contact where required. But for now he stays completely still, not moving a muscle, not looking away from the older man.

"I was furious with the Ministry for battening the hatches and refusing to accept that our darkest fears had been realised and my boy's death was no accident. I was furious with Albus Dumbledore for letting a Death Eater walk free around his school, without which none of it would have happened, my boy would be alive. I was furious with the world, with the Death Eaters, with any Gods I could think of to be furious at. But I was never furious with you, Harry."

Finally, Amos' voice breaks and he pauses for a moment, clearing his throat noisily as he swipes at the tears standing in his eyes. He always was an emotional man; never afraid to hide his feelings even as a boy at Hogwarts. I oft felt it was a good job he had been sorted into Hufflepuff; Gryffindor and Slytherin would have eaten him alive and Ravenclaw was never on the cards. Bluff and gruff, honest and caring, he wore his heart on his sleeve in a manner that you don't often see in pureblood families.

"How could I be furious with the boy…" He stops, corrects himself openly, voice cracking once more. "The man who brought my child home to me? How could I ever be angry at the young man who, even in the face of death, had enough compassion and respect to bring my boy home? You deserve… so much more than I could ever give you… and it still wouldn't be enough."

The tears in those brilliant green eyes fall, the boy's breath hitches and he looks down at last, away from the grief and the compassion in Amos' expression. He looks lost, forlorn, hopeless. I feel moisture prickling in my own eyes at Amos' impassioned plea and look down, unwilling to let the child see the tears.

"I may be completely mistaken of course. You may feel nothing at all about my boy. But if you are in any way burdened by guilt or shame or fear, I would ask you to stop." He smiles faintly, a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. It's been a long time since happiness reached his eyes, I feel. "You have earned nothing but my gratitude, and I should have said that last year. With everything that happened, with the Daily Prophet and the lies, I should have said something… But I was lost in a world of grief and pain and nothing could shake me from it. For that… for that I apologise. You deserved better."

"You don't owe me anything," Harry's voice is small, thin and anguished. "I told Cedric to take the Triwizard Cup with me. He wouldn't have taken it if I hadn't insisted. He felt that he owed me, that he wouldn't have got through the maze without me. But I wouldn't have got through the second task without his help. He was honest and honourable. He deserved the cup. He didn't deserve what happened. I killed him. The moment I convinced him to take the cup with me, I signed his death warrant."

"You cannot think that," Amos counters with real passion in his voice. "And you can't throw your life away like this. I understand. I understand more than you could perhaps imagine. But my brave, upright boy was never a spare. He was so much more than that. My dear boy died, the first shot in this war. You have been given a great gift, a great, great gift. You have a life for you to live, to love, to hope and to grieve; yes, even that last is a gift. It means you have a life. You have a heart. You have a soul."

Those same silent tears flow freely down the boy's face. He looks so forlorn curled up on the bed that my heart goes out to him. It would require a heart of stone not to blink away tears right now. That I am not equipped with.

"Don't throw away what my precious boy had torn from him, Harry," Amos continues brokenly, wiping at his eyes once more, his voice cracking and breaking unevenly. "Please. I know it doesn't seem fair. It isn't fair. It isn't right. I can't make it right. But please. Your life is worth more than that."

There's a long silence and then Amos stands up slowly and offers his hand to the young man in front of him. For a horrible moment I think that Harry won't take it, that Amos is going to be left standing there until he gives up in embarrassment, but thankfully the youngster eventually reaches out himself. Amos walks quietly to the door and then stops, looking back at the forlorn heap on the bed with real sadness in his gentle brown eyes.

"I also wanted to offer… I don't know if you'd be interested… But perhaps…" He stops, fumbling for words before starting again. "I know the Ministry can't be flavour of the month with you right now, but I can offer you a shadowing placement with me in the holidays… Only if you're interested of course."

Amos doesn't wait for a response to his offer, instead turning and walking out of the Hospital Wing without looking back. Outside the room however, he stands, leaning heavily against the wall, tears falling down his face. I stand silent witness, unsure what to say or do as he gets his sobs under control. It seems wrong somehow, to be standing and watching a grown man cry. But then, why should it be? Why do we expect men not to grieve, not to cry, not to express emotion? Because that's what 'real men' are like? Somehow, I have the feeling that what just transpired in that Hospital Wing was an example of a 'real man' if there ever was one.

"Thank you," I finally say softly, when he seems to be somewhat more under control. "That will have meant a lot to the boy. He feels like he's to blame for so much."

"He's not, you understand?" There's strength hiding behind the anguish in Amos' eyes. He starts walking down the corridor, leaving me to follow him rather than guide him. I don't know where we are heading but I know I can't leave the man like this. "My Cedric was a grand boy, he was brave and he was beautiful. He grew from such a bright child into an honourable man who took nobody for granted. Harry shouldn't have even been in the Triwizard Tournament; he was a boy up against men. And yet he acquitted himself well. He did well. And at the last. He gave my boy a choice. The honourable choice."

With another sob, Amos winds down into silence and he stays in silence as we walk through the hallways of Hogwarts. He takes a winding path, but doesn't seem uncertain or lost so I follow. It's only when we are out onto the grounds that I realise where Amos must be heading. The memorial garden. I feel a fool for not having realised it immediately. Amos walks almost on auto-pilot and we reach Greenhouse Six without another word being said.

The memorial isn't large, it doesn't even scream out that it is a memorial. But that perhaps is how Cedric would have preferred it. There are a selection of flowers, all of them ones which Cedric preferred according to Pomona, surrounding the centrepiece; three shining roses. They are the magical equivalent to a common muggle flower I believe, but are notoriously hard to tend and give off a light that few other plants can rival. We stop in front of them and Amos kneels down.

"My beautiful boy," he croons brokenly. I hear the greenhouse door open and shut behind us and turn to see Pomona coming slowly, quietly towards us. "My brave, upright boy."

_That's my son. That's my boy. That's my boy._

Pomona nods at me silently as she approaches and I don't need anything else, we've worked together long enough for me to recognise that look. Let me handle this, he is one of mine. So I move back softly, trying not to disturb either of them, Pomona with her arms immediately around the distraught man or Amos, his grief so frighteningly large in this enclosed space.

I know where I am needed. _My son. My boy. My boy._ I can't make things better. I can't fix the giant hole in my child's heart. But I can be there for him. I can listen or I can sit in silence. I can offer a shoulder to cry on or scream at. For both of my boys.

My sons. My boys. My boys.


	7. We Stand Before You

Back straight, head up I stand behind my boy and gaze into Rufus Scrimgeour's shrewd yellow eyes steadily. With one hand on Harry's shoulder, I can feel him shaking slightly as he stands in this imposing chamber, surrounded by witches and wizards who not two years ago nearly expelled him from Hogwarts. The tremor is slight though and I feel an intense wave of pride as he lights his chin up, almost defiantly, at the rangy but tough looking man sitting in judgement upon us. This time the judgement is not of Harry though. This time judgement is of those of us who surround him.

"I stand before you and formally request to stand in loco parentis to Harry James Potter, son of Lily and James Potter." Amos' voice is clear and steady, no one looking on from the gallery would realise how nervous the man actually is. His hand rests on Harry's other shoulder lightly, the young man standing proudly between us. "I do not stand as father; James Potter will never be replaced nor should anyone try to. My wife does not stand as mother; that would be an offense to Lily Potter's love, the sacrifice that she made. We stand as guardians, legal and magical to guide our son through his coming of age and to protect him from all hardships."

The low muted muttering and shuffling around the room speaks more loudly than words could as the assembled witches and wizards re-adjust their expectations. I don't know what they had anticipated having been called here today, but it would not have been this. For Amos to stand as guardian for Harry was a bold step and yet it has worked out perfectly for all concerned. Amos and Amelia's attentions have, more than anything else, brought Harry out of his shell. I don't think any of us expected their relationship to move beyond an almost uncle-like relationship, perhaps taking the place of Godfather at best. This was unexpected to all of us.

"Hem, hem." Immediately my hackles rise as I spin to the source of the interruption, Delores Umbridge, hiding her innate evil nature behind a pink fluffy cardigan and bow in her hair. There are few people I believe I would be able to muster the true hatred to commit an Unforgivable on. Delores Umbridge crossed that boundary when she made my students, under my care, write lies on their own hands. Not to mention her campaign of hatred against this pupil of mine or her near use of an Unforgivable herself. "You realise that you are offering guardianship of an unstable adolescent who has a nasty, nasty penchant for lying, Mr Diggory? A boy who has actively worked to destabilise the Ministry and all it stands for."

"I must not tell lies, Delores," I respond icily before Amos can even open his mouth, fury is welling up within me and I don't realise how close I am to losing control until I feel a thin, steady hand on my arm, grounding me to my surroundings. I must not lose control of my temper here. Not when we stand to lose so much. "And so I swear on my magic that today in this court I will not tell a word of lie."

My magic swirls in a burst of heat and light around me as I say those words, signalling the presence of a magical vow. Not as fatally binding as the Unbreakable Vow, but enough to severely drain if one is foolish enough to break one. In such cases they will often permanently drain the wielder, although some have been known to recover nearly their full magical reserves. None have recovered face however. A vow is not something to be entered into lightly.

"I stand before you today as prospective Godmother to Harry James Potter." My voice echoes clearly around the chamber, strong and stern, for many of those assembled the voice of their Deputy Headmistress even after all these years. I watch with vicious glee as Delores' face contorts in something approaching a snarl at my words but I dismiss her from my attention, instead glancing sideways and focussing solely on Augusta Longbottom. "Not as a replacement to Alice Longbottom, as I know that if she was able it would be her greatest pleasure to guide my young charge through the trials and tribulations that others have seen fit to place on him. I stand here today as an additional Godmother, to be there when Alice cannot through no fault of her own."

As I speak, I can feel Harry's tremors growing stronger under my hand and I tighten my grip slightly. Silent, unwavering support and he breaths deeply, obviously steadying himself. This small interchange is subtle and yet it isn't missed by many of the faces around us and I see the a visible softening around us. This collective group are not the most sympathetic perhaps, but nobody can avoid the suffering that they have put this boy through.

"I stand before you today as prospective Godfather to Harry James Potter." Severus' doesn't need to raise his voice for his low baritone to echo around the chamber and this time there is a real reaction from those seated. The mumbling buzz that accompanied mine and Amos' announcement rises into open shock and outright disbelief. "I stand as a convicted Death Eater and an active spy for the Order of the Phoenix."

The room erupts into chaos and I throw a shield around our group as both Amos and Severus throw themselves bodily in front of our young charges. Unnecessary as it turns out, but I have learned this last few years that you can never take too many precautions. Scrimgeour stands silently, his mere presence denying the need for words, and the noise dies down immediately. He glares around his assembled council as they settle back down into their previous positions.

"I stand, in full accordance with the Wizarding laws and with the full approval of both my ward and his prospective guardians, as Godfather. I vow to protect him with my life, to guide him and to teach him, I vow that I will stand by Harry Potter's side and I will not waver in my duty, my responsibilies or my love."

Severus stands tall, looking sternly around the room daring anyone to comment or object at his last words, seeming so out of place from his lips. The room around us is silent; few here would reckon with the dark aura around this man, fewer still would cross his sharp tongue or provoke his wrath. There is of course always one exception.

"Hem, hem." The stunned silence at Severus' declaration means that Delores' sickly sweet cough echoes around the room. I am glad to see Scrimgeour shoot a sour glance her way; he perhaps is not a convert to the pink and fluffy kitten power movement. "So we have a convicted Death Eater, here only on a dead man's sufferance, claiming Godfather rights to a proven delinquent and liar who probably killed his prospective guardian's son of his blood. Now that's a pretty tangle isn't it?" She looks at our group with a barely concealed sneer. "There are still two of you to account for. These courts are not a place for traitorous brats with no respect for the Ministry."

As one, Weasley and Longbottom step forward. My heart skips a beat as I look at them. This was not in the script. They insisted on standing by their friends' side but the agreement was that they would not move and they would most certainly not speak. I close my eyes for a brief second; there is no way around this now. We have to present a united front and rebuking them in front of this audience would be devastating, both for them and for Harry. There is nothing I can say. Nothing I can do. I have to watch as if I had sanctioned this. Glancing across at Severus I can see the same dilemma running across his face and I watch the sallow faced man's jaw set firmly as he comes to the same conclusion as I have.

"We stand here today as friends," the two of them say in unison and I grind my teeth together silently in frustration. "Support for Harry James Potter."

They have rehearsed this; whether they would have come forward without Delores' interference, I cannot know but they definitely had something like this planned in advance. The Weasley boy falls silent and Longbottom takes the lead with a significant glance at his grandmother. She doesn't move, doesn't give any open sign of her approval or permission but I can see the youngsters shoulders relax significantly. It is only when I look more closely that I see the guarded smile that and an unmistakable glint of pride in those cool aristocratic blue eyes. The thought occurs to me that she perhaps could have set my boys up to this. But no, if she had then the boy wouldn't have silently asked permission. There is more than meets the eye here however.

"Over the course of the last year, the Ministry has proven itself unworthy of blind faith or trust." There is shocked gasps from the gallery but, looking around, there are also some interested smiles and even blatant amusement on some faces. "Through ignorance, wilful pride and small-minded cruelty, the Ministry has caused more damage to the Wizarding communities that can as yet be counted. We have no faith in a Ministry that has repeatedly sought to harm our friend, for no reason other than petty spite or an inability to face up to the facts."

"Your appalling impertinence and insubordination aside, boy," Scrimgeour growled across the room, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation about his opinion of Longbottom's words, however as with Augusta watching on with those steely eyes he had to be restrained. "You forget your place. A child has no right to lecture the Ministry of Magic over deeds done or undone. I would have thought a Longbottom would have learned some respect."

Augusta's eyes flash fiercely and she makes as if to stand, but Neville holds her gaze calmly and she sinks back into the chair with a slight nod. A pity. That would have been entertaining to watch. However, that interchange is a passing of the baton. She has offered Neville the right to speak in her place and the right to defend her House. A flash of something I can't quite identify flashes over his face.

"I have been instructed to respect those who deserve it." His voice is calm in the face of Scrimgeour's anger and I marvel at the difference in this boy from where he was earlier this year. He wears his confidence like a cloak, shifting and shimmering around him; he has been to the very darkest depths of his mind and soul and he has come out stronger and balanced. Both boys have come a long, long way. "If the Ministry wishes for the respect of the House of Longbottom, the Ministry will have to earn it."

The ripples from that body blow can be felt as they spread across the chamber. Faces turn towards Augusta, expecting her to have words for her unruly grandson, to revoke the insult that he had just offered on behalf of her house. Augusta however says nothing. She does not move, she does not speak. She simply sits with a slight smile as she gazes at the young man in front of her. My mind shuts down for a moment as I process the implications. Neville is not yet of age, but Augusta has just fielded him to rights to speak on behalf of her, in an official capacity, as head of the house.

Scrimgeour clearly understands the ramifications as well as I do and his eyes darken considerably as he looks over the group of us with a cold gaze. With heavy eyebrows furrowed he looks more than faintly dangerous as his gaze sharpens and fixes on Neville. He is not a man who forgets a humiliation and I fear Mister Longbottom has made an enemy today. Scrimgeour is no Fudge however. He is far shrewder an opponent, and has more experience in when to pick his battles. You cannot survive that long as an Auror without that skill unless you want to be as eclectically bodied and half sane as Mad-Eye. He will not forget, but he will not act now.

"If that is all," Scrimgeour's tone is low and I can feel rather than hear the anger rippling below the surface. "Then I will move this to a vote. The motion as I understand it is for Mister Diggory to take guardianship of young Master Potter…"

The use of the term Master in this context grates on my nerves, it is a term used for young boys. Even by the time our youngsters reach Hogwarts age, they are entitled to the term Mister. From anyone else I might think it a slip of the tongue; from Scrimgeour I have no doubt that it was a deliberate slight. This is neither the time nor the place for that particular conversation although he cannot miss the fire in my eyes. Before the man can continue his sentence however, Harry takes us all by surprise in stepping forward sharply.

The boy's breath is quick and sharp, his face pale but his face is set and I would recognise that stubborn look anywhere. I have seen it many times in the last six years and never once has it boded well for any of us. My heart skips a beat once more. With two swift steps, he stands at the centre of attention, every eye in the room upon him. Without thinking I step forwards as well to stand at my boy's side. I am not the only one to step forward; Severus is almost in step with me and Amos is only a half-step behind.

"I stand…" He falters and I can see Scrimgeour about to step in but with a cough my courageous, foolhardy boy recovers his nerve and re-starts. "I stand before you today, Harry James Potter. I stand before you and I have something I need to say."

He stumbles to a halt again, but now the whole chamber has gone eerily silent and is watching with rapt attention, so there is nothing Scrimgeour can say that would not seem churlish. Harry however doesn't look at Scrimgeour, instead as I watch he seems to steadily catch the eye of every witch and wizard in the room. As he turns slowly, I can't help but notice the reactions of those assembled; some smile fondly, but many look down and few hold his gaze longer than is strictly necessary. In those reactions I realise what young Potter is doing; he is playing on the Wizarding world's guilt and shame at how they have treated him.

"To you sitting there in judgement, the guardianship of a sixteen year old might seem pointless. After all, I come of age this year, so why does this decision matter?" I wince slightly at the obvious melodrama in the boy's tone, but he is sixteen after all and from my many years of experience I am more than aware that a sixteen year olds brain is hard wired for melodrama. "But to any of you who are considering voting against this guardianship motion, I have a story to tell you."

I watch as he takes a steadying breath, now looking at Scrimgeour directly. Unlike the remainder of the assembled witches and wizards, Scrimgeour meets the boy's gaze directly, not flinching away.

"Not even six months ago, I cut my wrists in the middle of the night." Harry's tone is plain, matter of fact and he doesn't react to the gasps of horror, shock and disgust around the chamber. Those emerald eyes stay locked on Scrimgeour's yellow, almost feral gaze. Neither of them so much as blink. "There were many reasons. Somehow, the Ministry of Magic managed to be behind many of them. I was mad, bad and dangerous. I have no doubt that those were words right out of Fudge's mouth and into the papers. My Godfather, someone who was willing to take me away from my relatives, relatives who hated magic and hated me, reviled me and hurt me, couldn't because the Ministry wouldn't give him a trial. I was thought to be a liar and an attention seeking hoodlum for a whole year, because the Ministry executed Bartemius Crouch Junior before questioning him."

Now those emerald eyes flick across the chamber and there is judgement in them. He is judging those assembled and he is finding them lacking. Not that those of us standing at the boys side didn't already know that. A few of the wizards shift uneasily in their seats, but his gaze moves across all of them quickly, dismissing them as unworthy of his attention.

"He was 'no loss' according to the esteemed Minister Fudge," Harry spat out, voice now filled with venom and loathing. "No loss, except for the loss of truth for twelve months. Loss of the opportunity for the country to rally against Lord Voldemort, build defences and stand together. Loss of twelve months of my life to hatred, ignorance and spite. Because there was a lot of that." He turns so he is directly facing Delores Umbridge, her self-satisfied smirk dying slightly as that cold, expressionless gaze turns on her. "And to add insult to injury? You haven't removed this worthless excuse for a witch from her position of power. After all the damage she did to those of us under her care, all the hurt and the pain she caused, she is still…"

"Hem…"

That evil, toad faced woman makes to interfere, but stops as both Severus and myself take a single step forward. Even here, where we are supplicants, Severus is not a man the majority are willing to take on and Delores is at heart a coward and a bully. She drops her gaze instead and writes something frantically on a piece of parchment before passing it to Scrimgeour. The look he gives her however holds no illusions about Delores' nature. It is not by his choice that she is still sat at his right hand I realise. So whose decision is it, if not the Minister of Magic?

"I must not tell lies," Harry's voice drops to a near whisper, but the silence of the room is such that nobody could miss a single word he says. "And so I hold all of you to account for near destroying me. It was not just Fudge's incompetent bumbling, nor your expectation of either a saviour or a madman. It was not just Skeeter's vile pen at the mercy of a merciless administration nor even this vile woman's hatred and cruelty, forcing children to write lies in their own flesh all countenanced by every one of you who allowed Hogwarts to be infiltrated by the Ministry. No. I hold all of you to account. Every single one of you. Whether you actively spoke against me or simply let the rumour mill speak for itself. Because so very few of you stood for me and of those who did, few of you let me know. And so I felt alone, battered and embattled."

He takes two steps forward, dropping his robe to the floor and pulling up the sleeves of the shirt underneath. There is no missing the scars. There is no denying what caused them. He has given them no choice but to accept their part in that.

"And so today you have a choice. You have near destroyed me once. This is your chance to make up for it."

With that the boy steps back again, into his circle of protectors and friends, eyes down to the floor. It isn't until I place my hand back on his shoulder that I realise he is shaking. The thick robes he's wearing cover it well and those watching would not be able to tell, but it occurs to me that he is standing in the exact place that he was nearly expelled for defending himself and his blasted cousin last year. That alone would be enough to shake far more experienced heads than young Harry. And yet here he stands.

"Those in favour of Amos Diggory taking guardianship of Harry James Potter?"

Scrimgeour speaks before any further interruption can interfere and as I watch the rustling transforms itself into a sea of hands across the room. A quick glance across them says that there are more than half, more than three quarters even and it's as though a vice that I didn't even realise was on my chest releases with a spring. The breath all of let out collectively is almost a whoop but not quite.

"Those opposed to Amos Diggory taking guardianship of Harry James Potter?"

One lonesome hand rises into the air, although there are at least a half dozen hands which have not been raised at all, including Scrimgeour's I note. Abstaining is better than opposing however. And that one lonely hand looks decidedly out of place with no support as the toad like face attached to it contorts in fury.

"That would be settled then," Scrimgeour declares without even bothering to look at the lone open dissenter. "Full legal guardianship, and all rights and responsibilities contained within such, of Harry James Potter is transferred to Amos and Amelia Diggory with immediate effect."

There will be time for any ceremonies or fanfare later; for now, we have the result that was hoped for and it is with great relief and hope that our group falls out of the room, into the waiting press of teenagers and standing slightly further back Remus Lupin and the Weasley parents. The look on our faces gives the answer they are looking for before any words have left our lips and there's a raucous cheer from what appears to be an assembled Weasley army. Within moments all three of my boys have been mobbed by the waiting spectators. Only months ago I would have stepped in anxiously. Now it is a pleasure to see the genuine smile light up all three of my boys faces, delight and success shining in their eyes. The pair of emerald eyes however fly back, skimming over me and fixing on the proud face besides me. His hand reaches out silently and Amos doesn't need any further cue, stepping forward into the group to a renewed cheer.

The time for fanfare is apparently now.

We have come a long way this year just passed and we still have a long way to come. We still have a war to win. But for now we will celebrate and rejoice. We will continue along the process of grief and healing.

Most importantly, we will do it together.


	8. Epilogue

Standing in the Great Hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I cannot help but reflect on how far we have come. How far we have all come. I am surrounded by the wounded and the dead and I know that the sorrow will come, the grief will hit, but for now I can feel nothing but pride. We stood, side by side, we stood and we defended our home, our future and the next generations future from a psychopathic madman. We stood strong. And we won. That win came with losses. All wars come with losses.

Cedric was the first of far too many of my students to fall before the madness that was the Dark Lord, except now we can strip away all of the pretensions and call him by his real name. Tom Riddle, psychopathic madman. Killer of children. Too many children. Names and faces that will be engraved in my heart forever. But now is not a time for weeping. Now is not a time for mourning. Now is a time for strength, for celebration and for hope of the future to come. Strength in unity. Strength together.

For I am standing next to my boys, my girls. All of my children. I am surrounded by an army of my house, nearly all of them too young to be an army and yet every one of them refused to leave my side, to leave Hogwarts. Every one of them stood and fought. We have been through a lot these last two years. This school of mine was changed from a hallowed place of learning into a veritable army training house. I tried to stop it. I stood in front of my youngsters and I told them to leave. I ordered them to stand down. And they refused. They presented me with a case as tight as an Unbreakable Vow; there was nowhere more secure than Hogwarts. There was nowhere that could stand against the forces of evil for longer. If I sent my children home, I would only be sending them to their deaths.

Only two years ago, I was faced with two broken, terrified children. Boys who felt so alone, so ashamed of themselves that they chose their own destruction over life. Now I look at my boys, my children with more pride than I can bear. They have been forced to become men far sooner than I would have chosen. Yet, they have become men with grace and strength. They stood before me and presented me with the only plan that could work. Hogwarts was to become a fortress. And whilst of course the youngest would be evacuated, they would only be evacuated at the very last moment, when attention was already centred on Hogwarts and the school would be become a battlefield. My boys stood with Amos, Arthur, Augusta and Remus to state their case. They have learned that they are not alone. They have learned they can depend on those around them.

Had I my way, all of my current students would have been long gone from Hogwarts well before this battle started. Prophecy or no prophecy, once all the Horcrux's were destroyed then Tom Riddle was just a man and made of flesh and blood. There were countless of us to vie for the honour of landing that final blow. As it was, I was overruled. By my head-strong, brave, generous and strong young lions. And yet they were not alone. Filius, Pomona and Severus stood with them. We finally stand here together; four houses, united at last. The snake lies down with the lion, the raven sits on the shoulder of the badger and we are in peace with one another. That I can lay at Severus' door. It took a vast amount of courage to come forward as a spy after Albus' death. It meant he could never pass beyond the boundaries of Hogwarts itself. And yet, he saved countless young lives by doing so. Many of those we thought well past redemption.

When Albus died, it was as though the world stopped turning. He hadn't told anyone but Severus that whatever had affected his hand was killing him, slowly but surely. He hadn't told anyone that Draco Malfoy had been enlisted to kill him. It was Severus who told me. It was Severus who brought Draco to me. But it was Amos who told me about the Horcrux's. If Albus had not already been dead, I would have killed him myself. After all my boy had been through. After everything we had done. Albus still laid another burden on that child's shoulders. And then he died. I don't know what he expected Harry to do. Go off on a wild niffler chase across the United Kingdom in search of those evil things? Or maybe he was going to tell me and died before he had a chance. On days when I am feeling charitable, I consider that interpretation.

On my less charitable days, I wish there was a way to resurrect people if only so you could kill them again. I have no doubts that Albus loved Harry. But he never let himself love the boy like a father. He always stayed one step removed because the war was more important. Hundreds if not thousands of lives revolved around the war it is true, but there were better ways of doing it. To think that he left one of my precious boys to discover alone that he was the final Horcrux. That a part of Riddle's evil soul had been nestled in his head all these years. It was Severus who worked that out as well. It was Filius, Horace and Merlin knows what contacts that man pulled out of the woodwork who discovered how to extract it without killing the boy.

It has been a hard two years and standing in front of the Ministry was merely a taste of what was to come. It has been frightening, terrifying, difficult and heart-breaking at turns. On all of us. And now we stand here together. All of us. Not just my young Griffins. It has taken us too many years but finally we have united Hogwarts. We have fixed the breaks and the holes. There are scars, some of them more obvious than others. Individually and collectively, there will always be scars. But we can and we will work through them together. And so I stand, surrounded by an army of children. An army of children who all had to grow up far too soon. I stand surrounded by death and injury, cries of pain and fear. But we stand. Together we stand.

"Neville!"

A girl, slight of frame and covered in dust and grime, blood and dirt comes running into the Great Hall and it is only her voice that is recognisable. Her bright blonde hair is matted and dingy, a deep gash down her cheek drips blood down what is left of her outer robe but she is running, full pelt into the hall. Her eyes immediately fix on our group and I gesture with a genuine smile at the two young men beside me.

No longer boys. Perhaps they have never been allowed to be boys. But now as men Neville and Harry stand side by side, Ron to Harry's right and Hermione by his side. But to that particular young lady, it is as none of the rest of us exists. Her eyes are only for one man. Neville glances sideways at his companions, not to ask permission as much as to ensure they are all standing and then breaks ranks with a wordless cry. The girl stumbles at the last step and is caught by the subject of her attention.

"Luna!"

In the wake of all this grief and pain, I can't help but smile. If I was a betting woman, I'd have put galleons on those two years ago. Unfortunately I'm not a betting woman. But I can't help but feel a certain level of satisfaction. Despite the girls reputation there is no airy faerie nonsense about her now. She attaches herself to my young griffin unceremoniously and he lifts her into his arms effortlessly. I can't catch what is being said, but I don't bother to suppress a grin. I can more than imagine.

I glance back to see how Augusta is taking this new development, but she is merely looking on at her son as slim legs wrap themselves around his torso with a somewhat bemused expression, but a slight smile that reaches her eyes. In fact glancing across the entire group of adults, as every man and woman standing here today has more than earned their status as an adult of age or not, every one of them is watching with amusement at this display of young love.

"Put him down Luna," Harry eventually steps forward with a wry smile at the couple's antics. "You don't know where in Merlin's beard he's been."

As I had anticipated, Luna shows no sign that she has even heard and is certainly not going to pay any heed to the advice. Judging from the fond smile on Potter's face as he looks at the two of them, I don't think he believed he would be heeded anyway. Instead he strides across to the two of them and bodily lifts the girl off her unresisting, prey, moving her into a shoulder lift as she laughingly screeches at him. It does my heart good to see such unthinking boyishness from that young man, even now, when we have become accustomed to smiles that fully reach those emerald eyes.

I can see tiredness in his eyes, in his face, in his manner, but no more than every one of us is feeling. There will be grief when the true cost of this battle is accounted for, but it will be a grief shared with all of us. I can trust that it will not be a grief shouldered alone, the burden growing steadily heavier on the shoulders of one who does not have the capacity to carry any more. It will be shared. And mixed in with that grief will be memories, stories shared around the table, guilty laughter eventually coming out into the open. It will take time. But we will all heal. Together.

For now, I am to forget about the inevitable cost, the coming tears and regret and instead take great joy and pride in the young men and women standing in front of. All of them have made me immeasurably proud. But in particular two of them. Both born to those who thrice defied Tom Riddle as the seventh month dies, only one marked as an equal but working together with the help and support of those around them. I don't put much stock in prophecies. I never have and I never will. I am a firm believer that oft or not they are self-fulfilling and that by hearing it and believing it you will make it come true. Whether I believe or not though, that was not a burden for a child to bear alone. It was not a burden for a child to bear at all.

But if the prophecy is to be taken literally, if we did actually fulfil it, you only need look around those assembled to see what both Harry and Neville have that Tom Riddle knew not.

Amos' hand resting lightly on a shoulder and Augusta's proud smile as she looks at her grandson.

Luna's arms wrapped tightly around the young man that she loves, her forehead pressed to his shoulder and the adoration clear in those hazel eyes as he encloses her in his arms.

The way neither Ron nor Hermione's eyes leave their friend, their hands clasped together; forever entwined by what they have come together.

The fiercely protective glow in Remus' golden eyes as he looks on the young man who is his Godson in all but name, the man he has named Godson to his own son, as yet a babe in arms.

The bond between these three young men, closer than brothers, and those who have fought by their side.

Albus was in some ways, completely correct. The power that Tom Riddle does not know, cannot know, is love. But it is that very love that means that neither Harry nor Neville are isolated. It is that very love which means they are surrounded by those who will protect them to the end. And it is in all the important ways that Albus was wrong.

Because love only gets more powerful the more it is shared.

By isolating my boys, Albus nearly crippled them. But together, together we stand strong.

Together we will rebuild, we will mourn and we will rejoice. In the warmth of the fire we will share memories of those lost and those still with us. We will love and in that love there will be another generation of young witches and wizards crossing the hallowed halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry who will never need to experience the fear, the hatred and the pain that their parents, grandparents and even great-grandparents experienced.

But all that is many years in the future. Today we have won. More than one battle and perhaps the most important battle of all was not the one in which the most blood has been spilled.

The most important battle was fought behind closed doors with tear filled voices and frantic pounding on an unwilling chest.

Looking into sparkling emerald eyes, full of life and love, I can only smile.

Together we stand. And so we stand strong.


End file.
